


Powerless

by cadel_solo



Series: Powerless trilogy [1]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: And Then Some, Child Abuse, Family Secrets, Incest, Sexual Abuse, and it goes up to 15, and then i cleaned it up and put it up here, but hey, i've had this up on ff.net for a couple years, not a fun time, this fandom might hate me, wirt starts out at age 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:44:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 31
Words: 60,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13253376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadel_solo/pseuds/cadel_solo
Summary: Wirt suffers sexual and physical abuse at the hands of his stepdad for seven years. Throughout everything that happens, he finds out about a special place, called the Unknown.





	1. The Scariest Thing

_August 29th._

_First day of junior year. SHE's gotten even more beautiful since last year. Her and her beautiful eyes and her wit and her humor and laugh... it kills me, and yet it keeps me from killing myself. With Jonathan peeking over my shoulder every second of the day, I can't believe I've been able to keep my mouth shut for this long. You'd think I'd have gathered the courage to say something by now. But he's still around and nothing's changed, as you'd expect. It's like he's a wicked poltergeist that just won't leave, that will go wherever I go, haunt my every waking hour and keeping forcing me to do those sick things, and he'll never leave. Maybe, if he isn't gone by senior year, I'll go ahead and kill myself. Yeah, that sounds like a good plan._

Halloween night, 2008. Wirt shook his foot impatiently in front of the bedroom mirror, watching his mother's reflection buttoning the back of his Halloween costume. He couldn't help but grin, as he looked exactly like the professional marching band players he saw on the television. The shako was slightly too big for his head, and it wobbled when he walked. But he was still happy. It covered a bruise on his forehead, from where he'd slipped and hit his head against the kitchen table earlier that day. His mother, Elspeth, had told him that he shouldn't run in the pretend marching shoes, and even considered making him wear different shoes. But Jonathan, Elspeth's boyfriend, had butted in and claimed that even the real shoes were always like that, and that once Wirt was on sidewalk, it wouldn't be a problem. Elspeth gave in and let him keep the shoes on, and once she left the room, Jonathan gave him a wink. Wirt grinned. He liked Jonathan a lot. He was nice.

"Turn around," Wirt's mother, Elspeth, ordered. She tightened the shako's strap and shifted it from side to side until it was no longer lop-sided- not that it mattered, because chances were it would become uneven that night while Wirt and his friends were out trick-or-treating.

"Now, remember, my phone number is-"

Wirt sighed and lulled his head. "3-3-6-3-0-8-7, you wrote in on my elbow, we'll trick-or-treat for two hours, and Jonathan will pick me up from the park. I know, Mom, I know."

" _Hey_ ," Elspeth scolded gently. "Watch how you talk to me. But yes, all that. Now be careful, and be good for Sara's dad, okay?"

" _Yeeesss_." Wirt picked up his pillow case and turned around.

"I love you," Elspeth told him, standing up.

"I love you, too!" Wirt was already out the front door. Outside, a green pick-up truck was parked on the curb, and his two best friends, Jason and Sara, slipped out of the car and raced towards him, dressed in their costumes. Jason was a Power Ranger, and he looked funny with one of his teeth missing, which he had just plucked out with the elastic band on his mask a few hours earlier. Sara was dressed as Spider-Man, and she had a black bucket with a spider on it to match. They all hugged and greeted eachother excitedly, and once Wirt said goodbye to his mother, the three gathered into the back seat and chattered away excitedly.

First order of business, they visited Mrs. Daniels, the friendly yet stern old lady in the neighborhood, to wish her a happy Halloween. They hadn't intended to stay long, but sure enough, they spent the first hour and a half at her dining room table, watching Halloween specials on TV while she taught them how to make Lady Fingers, by putting candy-corn in the tips of a glove's fingers and filling the rest with popcorn. They left after a long while, when they realized that they now only had a half hour to trick-or-treat. When they were finished, Sara's father, Jeffrey, drove them down to the playground. They had just settled down in the grass and opened their bags when Jonathan's car pulled up. Wirt told them good-bye, and ran towards the car, where Jonathan was waiting patiently. Wirt plopped into the backseat and shut the door, immediately opening his pillowcase up and vaguely shuffling through the candies. His eyes lit up at some Twix and Fun-sized Hershey's bars.

"Have fun?" Jonathan asked, pulling away from the curb.

" _Mhmmmm_..." Wirt hardly paid attention, being more fascinated with the candy-filled pillow-case than with small talk.

However, Jonathan seemed equally as absent-minded.

The radio sang "Thriller" by Micheal Jackson, a song Wirt was sick to death of because his father, Stephen, played records of it every Halloween on a constant loop while they carved pumpkins.

The car seemed stuffier than usual, and when Wirt looked up, Jonathan's forehead was gleaming with sweat. He was frantically tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, and Wirt looked out the window.

Jonathan was driving them in the opposite direction of home, towards the downtown area. Wirt alternated between confusion and glee, as the stores here often gave away discount coupons for the grown-ups and candy for the kids at the front counter. Children in costume ran down the sidewalk, away from their parents, who, in response, scolded them and took their hands.

But rather than park, Jonathan just kept driving. The amount of people lessened, and at the end of the area was a bar, a club, and a bowling alley. Jonathan turned towards the back lots, where no one roamed and streetlights flickered.

Wirt stared at a filled garbage can a few yards away. Where were they? What were they doing there?

The darkness was eerie, and Wirt couldn't help but feel scared, like there was a beast out there in the shadows.

He jolted with a start when the driver's door opened and Jonathan stepped out.

He watched as Jonathan opened the back door and shut it after climbing in next to him.

"Why are we here?" Wirt asked him, glancing around at the dark lot. When he heard shuffling beside him, he looked, even more confused to see Jonathan pulling his shirt off and undoing his belt.

"Quiet," Jonathan whispered, plucking the candy bag away from Wirt's small hands and tossing it to the passenger's seat. Wirt's head spun, with bewilderment, discomfort, and sudden homesickness as Jonathan lie over him.

Wirt looked up at him, nose wrinkled. "What are you doing?"

But he didn't get an answer, only his shako, jacket, and pants pulled off. Wirt turned red, and tried to wriggle his way out of Jonathan's arms. He began to cry with fear and frustration when he wouldn't budge.

Everything after that was vivid and painful, and it felt like it lasted forever.

It hurt to sit back down, it hurt so much that sitting on his bottom nearly made him gag. He wished Jonathan would leave him there and call his mom to pick him up, but he didn't, and Wirt was too scared to say anything.

He cried silent tears, trembling and hugging himself and looking out the window. Most of the stores had closed, and the children had gone home.

It was all empty.

When he was younger, he used to imagine that the dark stores were haunted. His father used to play this strange video game in which a man explored buildings filled with bloody rooms and horrific monsters. The dark, closed stores reminded always him of it and scared him.

But right now, he decided that Jonathan was the scariest thing ever, and he _wished_ he was out hiding in one of those eerie stores.

The very second Jonathan pulled into the driveway and shut off the car, Wirt ditched his candy and went right to bed.

He didn't sleep for another three hours.


	2. Twenty Dollars

_December 22nd. Christmas is in three days, and then there's the new year. Jonathan isn't a pious person, but he believes that all the "sins" you've commited in the past year are cleansed, and that the "sinner is redeemed." That's what he told me. He uses that as a way to justify himself and to feel better about his actions. He's so sick. I don't understand how somebody could be this sick._

Christmas Eve. Wirt didn't move as Jonathan lathered gel into his hands and slicked back his chestnut-colored hair. He stared at the bathroom door with a cringe on his face.

"Stand up."

Wirt did as he was told, leaping onto his feet and holding his hands behind his back. Jonathan adjusted the candy-cane-adorned green tie around Wirt's neck and fixed his collar. It was difficult not pull away, Wirt didn't like Jonathan touching him, or even looking at him. It'd been nearly two months since what happened on Halloween, but he was still scared.

"Alright." Jonathan took a step back. "Let me good look at you."

Wirt raised his arms, begrudgingly allowing Jonathan to admire the red suit jacket, the white button-up under it, and the black suit-pants, all topped off with the Christmas tie Elspeth had found at a thrift store.

Jonathan beamed. "Alright, good."

Wirt flinched as Jonathan took him by the shoulder.

"Now." Jonathan kneeled to his level. "Don't make me look bad."

Wirt nodded, looking down while Jonathan set a hand on his back and led him downstairs to the living room.

Jonathan's mother, Heather, stood up with a delighted squeal. "Oh, you look adorable!" She nearly crushed Wirt in a tight hug, and shoved a box into his arms.

Wirt looked to his mother, who sat on the couch opening a box of candy canes. She smiled at Wirt as she stood and began placing them on the tree.

"Open it, buddy," Jonathan said.

Wirt picked at the sealed edges of the tape and peeled it off. When he opened the flaps, he found a neatly folded woven green sweater. He pulled it out and unfolded it, looking over the woven colored ornaments.

"Thank you," he murmured with a polite, albeit fake, smile.

Heather squealed with delight. "Oh, you're such a sweetheart!"

Wirt was going to thank her again, until Jonathan's hand on his head cut him off. "I'm raising him up well, 'ey, Mom?"

"Well, I never expected anything less." She turned to her purse, and Jonathan gave Wirt a wink, a wink unnoticed to everyone except for the disgusted eight-year-old.

Heather turned back around and set a twenty-dollar bill in Wirt's hand.

"Start saving up," she said with a smile.

Wirt nodded.

"Here," Jonathan said, taking the bill and stuffing it in his pocket. "So you don't lose it, I'll give it back to you later."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Christmas dinner was delicious, and for Wirt, that's saying a lot, as a kid who had too much anxiety gnawing away at him to get any satisfaction from eating. He loved the ham, the potatos, the biscuits, and the macaroni salad, and was almost tempted to ask for seconds.

Once the dinner concluded, Wirt's mother rewarded him with a small plate of apple pie "a la mode", and was sent to bed after a bath.

He fell asleep to the sound of Heather and his mother chattering away with eachother while Jonathan did the dishes. It was nice not to hear Jonathan's voice for a change.

But he wondered with dread when he was getting the twenty dollar bill back.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The following morning, Wirt was tickled out of sleep by his mom. He gripped his pillow to defend his squirming limbs in a fit of giggles.

"Come on, buddy, get up, it's present time. Hey, why don't you put on the sweater Jon's mom made for you?"

Wirt smiled and nodded his head cheerfully. "Okay."

As soon as she left, he shut the door and exchanged his large white T-Shirt for the green Christmas sweater. He kept his pajama bottoms on and pulled on a pair of long red socks.

He hugged himself, took a breath, and opened his bedroom door, venturing downstairs to the warm, decorated living room. Six wrapped gifts were scattered neatly under the Christmas tree. One for his mom from Jonathan, one for Jonathan from his mom, and four for him, two from his mother, one from "Santa"- also his mother- and one from Jonathan.

For his mother, there was a collection of novels and a bookmark with a heart hanging from the ribbon. For Jonathan, a calender of horoscopes for the following year, and a ring with a beetle trapped in tar (gross).

Wirt's mother gave him a look of anticipation. "Open your presents, sweetie."

Wirt began unwrapping the present from "Santa". He grinned at a polished wooden train, with his name carefully carved in the side. The other box presented him a pair of beige rollerskates with red wheels, and the third box contained the Artemis Fowl series.

Wirt smiled. "Thanks, mom."

"Open Jonathan's now," she urged, pointing to the untouched box.

Wirt wasn't eager at all to tear the wrapping paper off of it, nor to open the box, nor to force out a, "Thank you, Jonathan" when finding a brand new blue helmet for the roller skates. But when he did, his mother beamed, and she planted a kiss on Jonathan's cheek.

It made Wirt sick, but at least his mother was happy.

She urged him to stay out of his room for the day and spend time with them. He loathed the idea of being around Jonathan, but loop-holed his away around it by staying close to his mother and paying as close attention to one of his new books the whole time. He was treated to hot chocolate and candy-cane shaped cookies after lunch, and just before Elspeth began cooking dinner, a knock at the door called to their attention.

Jonathan was the first to open the door. Wirt's father, Stephen, stood in the doorway, shivering with snow scattered on his hat and holding a wrapped box.

Wirt looked up and his eyes lit up. "Dad!"

Stephen grinned with chattering teeth, and picked Wirt up as Jonathan moved to the side.

"Here, pal," Stephen said, handing him the box. "It's my Christmas present to you."

Wirt was set down, and he tore open the paper, finding what looked like a small black briefcase. His breath caught in his throat, and he sat down to open it up.

The portions of a clarinet were set neatly in each of their places, a box of reeds inside a small compartment next to where the lid shut.

"Woah..." He looked up at his dad, whose cheeks were flushed with pride (also with the stinging cold on his cheeks). "Thank you!" He stood up and wrapped his arms around him in a tight hug.

"You're very welcome," his father replied, patting his back.

Wirt knelt back down and shut the case.

"If you want, I'll pick you up tomorrow, and we'll go get you some books to help you learn how to play, sound good?"

"Mhm!" Wirt picked the case up.

"Okay, then I'll see you tomorrow at 11:00."

"Okay, Merry Christmas, dad."

"Merry Christmas."

As the door shut, Wirt smiled down at his prize and brought it upstairs.

He skipped dinner to admire it, and to get a chapter or two into his new books. At eight, he nearly fell asleep, face in the pages of the spine, when he heard the door open.

He looked up, shutting the book. His throat seized when the door shut as quickly as it was opened, and the door locked with an ominous little click.

"I didn't know you played clarinet," Jonathan commented, fiddling with the belt loops on his pants.

Wirt didn't respond, because he didn't know how.

"Thinking about joining a school band when you're older?"

_Band_?

"Like the marching band?"

_The marching uniform._

Wirt felt his pulse in his ears, and he shook his head. He suddenly felt the urge to throw up. _Not again, not again._

Jonathan neared the bed and fumbled with his belt.

Wirt tried, really tried, to control his tears, but he was shaking and weeping within seconds, and as soon as Jonathan's weight on him made the bed squeal in protest, he became dizzy and disoriented.

He could have so easily pulled a shoe out from under the bed and whacked Jonathan with it, but the dead, blank look in Jonathan's eyes made Wirt imagine he would weild a chainsaw and do away with him for good, so he simply stayed frozen, and cried as Halloween night happened all over again.

The pain was as intense and burning as the first time, and, if even possible, made him feel even worse. He could have stopped it, right? If he knew what would happen, he could stop it, right?

Wirt hugged himself as Jonathan grunted and stood up.

He heard a single thud, and the sound of crinkling paper from the bedside table where his alarm clock was.

He didn't move until Jonathan left, and in the dim light of the moon, he could see the twenty dollar bill.


	3. King Jonathan

The day could have been much better if everything from the waist down hadn't hurt so much. But it brought him two new clarinet books and three hours away from Jonathan.

After marveling at the guitars, ukuleles, and arrangements of Disney songs and newer hits, Stephen nearly had to pry Wirt out of the shop, to take him to Grilly's, the nearest burger place that wasn't McDonalds. Wirt only had some of his dad's fries (upon Stephen's insistence) and a small root beer, and most of the time wasn't spent eating, rather listening to his dad ramble on about the list of "Top 30 Classics from the 80's and 90's", which had been playing on the television monitor above the bar.

On the ride home, Stephen went on a ramble.

"How can you have a list of 80's and 90's classic movies and _not_ include _Heathers, Leon the Professional, Radio Flyer_... there are so many better movies that just go overlooked..."

As they drove down his street, Wirt tried to keep the conversation going so he wouldn't have to leave. "What're they about?"

"Well, _Heathers_ is about this girl dating a sociopath- not a movie for kids. _The Professional_ is about a hitman befriending this girl whose family got murdered- also not a movie for kids. And _Radio Flyer_ is about these two boys going about their life with an abusive stepdad... I guess none of them are for kids, they're all pretty depressing."

Wirt didn't know how to respond, especially hearing about that last one. "Oh."

He looked out the window as his dad pulled up next to his mom's house, and thankfully, the only car in the driveway was his mother's.

"Wirt, you'd tell me if somebody was hurting you, right, buddy? Me or your mom?"

Wirt felt his stomach churn, and he looked up at his dad. He slowly nodded.

"And you won't keep bad secrets from us?"

Wirt shook his head.

Stephen smiled down at him. "I'll let you borrow some videos this weekend when you come to my house. Does your mom still have the VCR?"

Wirt concealed the books inside his red coat, and opened the door. "She just got a new one."

"Alright, I'll get those to you next time we see eachother."

Wirt offered a small smile. "Bye, dad."

"Bye, love you, son."

Wirt slammed the door shut and scurried up the pathway to his front door. He listened to the engine of his dad's car become faint as he drove off.

When he opened and closed the door, squeezing into the house from the cold, he froze at the sight of his mother crying at the dining table.

She was covering her mouth, and staring at a small, plastic stick in her hand.

"Mom?" He slowly walked over and viewed what his mother was holding. On the end, there was a small strip, resembling a strip of gum, and there was a tiny screen with a red plus sign on it.

Before he could ask why she was crying, she wrapped him in a hug so tight, that had it been any tighter, his spine would have snapped.

"Wirt, sweetheart." She sniffed. "Mommy's having a baby."

Wirt reacted with silence, and a sudden impending feeling of dread and emptiness set in his stomach. Now Jonathan would never leave.

He couldn't decide who to be mad at; his mom, Jonathan... the baby?

...himself?

His answer: All of the above. But mostly himself.

Because deep inside, he knew he could have stopped it.

Maybe it would take a knife to his throat, or a gun to his forehead, but, Lord, he knew that he could have stopped it.

Now it would never go away.

xxxxxx

The night of his mother's announcement, Wirt listened to his mom and Jonathan laughing downstairs in the kitchen, music playing from the radio and glasses being clunked together. His mom sounded so happy, and she told Jonathan so many times that she loved him.

Their talking became quiet, and Wirt so desperately wanted to hear what they were saying.

He rolled off his bed, careful not to let it moan and bring attention to himself. His door wasn't as prone to complaining as his bed was, neither was the floor, but the bathroom door was quite insistent to letting everyone know when it was being opened and closed.

He cringed as the door creaked. The door shut with a click and Wirt curled up on the floor with his ear against it.

"I love you so much," his mother murmured. "You're so important to me."

Jonathan laughed gently. "I love you too, this baby will be so lucky you're its mother."

Between the two was a warm silence.

It dragged on, and once several minutes passed by, his mother's snoring was the only noise in the living room.

The floor squeaked when Jonathan stood up, and Wirt bolted upward, shutting the light off and trying to silently sneak back into his room.

But his "stealth" wasn't stealthy enough, and he gasped as a hand gripped his arm and pulled him back into the bathroom. Jonathan didn't even bother to turn the light on, and Wirt couldn't see anything Jonathan was doing.

Pain surged through his neck, torso, and waist as he was bent over the bathroom counter and held down by his body with Jonathan's, and his neck by Jonathan's hand. He couldn't do anything, his feet couldn't even reach the floor.

He began to weep, and the hand on his neck slid up to his mouth, making his protests muffled.

He wished the darkness was enough to make him pass out, but he was awake for every second of his face being pressed against the counter and his lower regions being violated in the most painful ways possible.

Jonathan didn't bother to clean up the mess, and left Wirt naked and shivering on the floor.

xxxxx

The following weekend, Wirt held his arms out for his father to drop a stack of VHS tapes. "There we go; _My Girl, Stand by Me, Rugrats in Paris, Problem Child, Home Alone, Back to the Future,_ and _Radio Flyer_."

"Thanks." Wirt would have smiled up at his father if it weren't for the straining concentration needed to hold such a pile of tapes.

"You can give them back next time you come over, and _try_ to keep track of the covers, please."

"I will."

Stephen seemed to only just realize that Wirt couldn't possibly get out of the car and into the house in such a predicament, and so he stepped out from the front and opened the door so Wirt could slide out.

Stephen took five of the tapes from Wirt's load and walked him up to the front door.

It was unlocked, and Jonathan was the first to cast eyes on Wirt and Stephen.

"Stephen," Jonathan said.

"John," Stephen said back. He looked down to Wirt and set the tapes back in his arms. "Here you go, I'll see you later."

Stephen didn't wait for Wirt to say goodbye back.

Wirt lugged the tapes upstairs to his room and dropped them next to his television. It was an old bulky one he never used, and a thick layer had formed on top.

The second dinner ended, Wirt asked his mother for the VHS player, which she gladly hooked up to the TV in his room for him.

He shut himself into his bedroom, and sat in the middle of the floor, spreading the movies out and pondering his options.

The only one he cared to watch at all was _Radio Flyer_.

He slid the tape from its package and pushed it into the slot of the VHS player.

After shutting off the lights, he curled up against his bed and paid attention to the movie. The beginning was nothing fascinating, just a dad telling his two sons of an older boy who'd ridden a bike off the roof. But Wirt's attention was reeled in like a fish as the two brothers named Bobby and Mikey watched their mother giggling and drinking with a man called _The King_.

There was little boy named Bobby, likely a little younger than him. The King would beat him, and when his older brother Mikey found out, he begged him not to tell.

Wirt got about an hour into the movie, in which The King had found a burning cord in the oven, and gone in search of Bobby. Bobby was hiding in the shed, staring at the doors and listening as the King furiously hollered his name. "Bobby! Where are ya, Bobby? Bobby!"

The shed doors opened, and so did Wirt's bedroom door.

Jonathan glanced at the screen, and then back at Wirt.

Wirt buried his face into his lap and peeked up over his knees as Jonathan just about tore the cord from the wall.

He turned to Wirt, holding the cord up. "You don't need to be watching stuff like this."

Wirt nodded.

"Bed. Now."

Wirt stood up and shuffled into bed. Jonathan just watched as he curled up and began trembling under the covers.

No words were spoken, but Jonathan slid two fingers across his neck, like a blade to his throat, and shut the door quietly, leaving Wirt alone with the darkness and fear.

In the short seconds before Wirt dozed off, he thought to himself.

_King Jonathan._


	4. Gregory Gallas Harton

_Radio Flyer_ remained trapped and lonely in the VCR. Jonathan kept it hostage in an unlocked cabinet next to the living room TV, though Wirt hadn't been strictly forbidden from touching it. To hook it up for just a few seconds and eject the tape would be so easy. But the fear took him by the collar and tugged him away from the cabinet. That way, Jonathan wouldn't be the one snatching him by the collar.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**I don't know where I am, but it's cold and my clothes are stuck to me. Rain is falling on me in cold little drops.**

**I spin around but there are only trees, _so many trees_. I feel like crying- maybe I'm dead, maybe I was kidnapped and dropped in the middle of the woods. I think about that scary movie my dad and mom had been watching one night, about a woman who'd been buried alive in the woods by a crazy man in her sleep.**

**From a distance, I hear the sound of a horse. It snorts, and whinneys. When I look in its direction, there are still only trees.**

**I tip-toe towards the noise, and then...**

**A light.**

**My eyes widen, and the cold leaves me. I run towards it, and see a little house, with a glow peeking out through the windows.**

**I approach it hopefully, and knock on it. The wood hurts against my fist because I'm so cold.**

**I wait, and just as my hope begins to wear down, there's a frustrated mutter, the voice of a woman.**

**" _Git outta the way, ya dumb dog_."**

**The door swings open, and there is a woman, wearing a dress, an apron, and a hood over her dark hair, which appears to be purple.**

**"Oh, _gosh_ , young man, get in here, you'll catch a death of cold!"**

**She pulls me in by the sleeve of my pajamas, and leads me to a table. "Sit down, sit down, do you want tea? Hot cocoa- oh jeez, you're pale as a ghost." She turns around and calls out toward what looks like the kitchen. "Bring me a towel and a blanket!"**

**"I'm fine," I tell her, clutching onto myself, but she's not listening. I look ahead at the candle in the center of the table. I gasp as she suddenly wraps me up in a towel, but she only dries me off and sets the towel down.**

**"Take your shirt off, son, it-"**

**I jump and press myself to the wall, "Wha- no!"**

**"-you'll get awful ill if you stay in that soaked shirt, boy."**

**"I-I don't want to!" I want her to get away from me, I don't want somebody else to do the bad things like Jonathan does.**

**But instead of grab me, she just hums. "Well, alright, if you insist." And she sets the blanket over my shoulders, right on top of my soaked pajamas.**

**I'm confused now, but relieved at the same time, and I look around the cabin.**

**There are tables, and people I don't know sitting at them. Each table has a candle, and everyone looks so old and solemn. Men at the stage are playing music that seems to describe what the people here are feeling- blue and groggy. There's a counter full of food, and my stomach growls at me for not being the one to eat it.**

**"Um..." I look up at the woman. "...ma'am?"**

**She looks down at me. "Yes?"**

**"Where am I?"**

**She smiles and spread her arms, as if presenting the cabin. "This is my tavern, I'm the Tavern-Keeper!" She turns and points to one table. "And he's the butcher-" (the Butcher feels the need to introduce himself, "I'm the Butcher"). She points to another table. "-the baker-" ("Yeh!" the Baker exclaims). "-the Midwife-" (I cringe as the Midwife chokes out a whole fish). "-the Master and Apprentice-" (The Apprentice is tied to a rope, and the Master gives it a tug). "-the Tailor-" (The Tavernkeeper says this with contempt, and the Tailor weeps). She turns to me. "-and you are...?"**

**"Wirt," I say in a small voice. "A, um... a boy?"**

**The Butcher laughs, but I didn't know he could even hear me.**

**The Tavernkeeper claps her hands. "Well then, I dub thee: _the Pilgrim_." She pats my soaking hair, and I smile.**

**She walks away towards the kitchen, and I watch her heat up a pot of milk over a stove. From the oven, she pulls out a jar, and with a wand that looks similar to something you'd use to manage honey, she slathers melted chocolate into the pot.**

**I swing my legs under the table, and I smile to myself.**

**I haven't felt so warm and safe in a long time.**

xxxxxxxxx

The waiting room was cool and a little dim. Everything was fairly quiet; Reporters on TV rambled on about a local car crash, and from the other room, Wirt's mom was moaning and crying in what sounded like excruciating pain. The nurses and doctors kept telling her the same things over and over ( _"He's almost here, keep pushing" "You're doing so well" "Come on, almost there"_ ) _._ Wirt wanted to turn around, but his fear kept him still. Jonathan was slouching in the chair next to him, eyes on the television.

Wirt couldn't tell if he felt more anger or fear towards his stepdad. He's terrified of him, especially considering that during Mom's pregnancy, she was so tired and in pain that she had to rest often, and Jonathan took every single opportunity he got to force Wirt into the bathroom or garage.

But Wirt was angry as well, angry at his mom for getting pregnant, angry at Gregory for existing, angry at Jonathan for being the way he is, and angry at himself for letting it happen.

In the moment, he always felt completely tiny and with no control. But once Jonathan left the room, Wirt cried and scorned himself for not hitting or kicking him.

Knowing Jonathan all too well, the next few days his mom would in the hospital would be an even worse nightmare.

Maybe he could stay the next few days at his dad's. School was beginning in a few days, and he could spend the remainder of the summer with his dad before he started fourth grade. That would be so nice.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when the door to the room his mother was in opened, and a doctor said, "Mr. Harton, you can come in now."

Jonathan pulled Wirt up by the arm and tugged him into the room.

Inside, Wirt's mother was reaching to the side. Her hand was in what looked like a tray, and she looked so stargazed.

Wirt turned and looked into the tray, and in the tray, pale, chubby, and a little shriveled at the fingertips, was Wirt's baby half-brother.

The band on his frail wrist read, "GREGORY GALLAS HARTON".

Jonathan set a hand on Wirt's shoulder, looking down at the baby as well.

"He's so beautiful," Jonathan told his wife, marveling down at the baby boy.

Wirt stared at the baby with resentment.

He couldn't stand what this baby meant, what he represented. Wirt had had a one-way ticket to escape, but this baby took that ticket, tore it up, stepped on, and spat on it.

And Wirt hated him for it.


	5. Mr. Lein

Little Jason Funderberker was a flamboyant, charismatic, and sensitive kid, making him the butt of many jokes from adults and children alike.

But among all things, he was also a crybaby.

Sara and Wirt watched helplessly as Jason sat against the wall in the cafeteria, sniffling and clutching onto his backpack.

"Come on, Jason, it's not _that_ bad," Sara reassured, dropping her own backpack and sitting criss-cross next to him. "We still have recess and lunch together, we'll see you _then_ -"

"No! No, no!" He sniffled. "Y-you and Wirt are going to be in the same class and I'm not! And you're going to become best friends and you're going to forget me and I'm going to be alone for the _entire_ rest of the year!"

"Jason, we're not just going to forget you, it's not like we're going to be in a different country."

With that, the morning bell shrilled, and Jason stood up furiously, backpack in his white, shaking fist. "Whatever, I hear your teacher is just some fat crap-head anyway."

Next to eachother, Wirt and Sara watched him rush off angrily, a few fifth graders laughing and giving him a shove.

"Just watch," Sara mumbled, she and Wirt beginning on their way to their new classroom. "By recess he won't shut up about how much he loves his new class." Wirt nodded in agreement.

In front of classroom 309, a mob of kids swarmed around with their fancy clothes and enthusiasm (both reserved exclusively for the first day). The door to the classroom was not yet open, and as they waited, Sara rambled on about her summer.

"...and we visited my mom in California, she took us to Six Flags and stayed in this really nice hotel with room service and everything... Josie threw a tantrum because she couldn't go on the rides I did, and my mom promised she'd take us there again sometime when Josie was older so she could go on all the rides. Maybe I could ask her if you and Jason could go with us, she wouldn't mind."

All the children gathered in a swarm toward the classroom, and when Wirt and Sara looked up, the door had been opened.

"Come on!" Sara exclaimed to him.

Eight rows and four columns of seats were split by the aisle. The seats were all slanted to face the front, and in the very corner of the room, in the front left corner near the board, was the teacher's desk. There were posters all over the walls, and plants adorning the windowsill.

In a falter of common teacher tradition, there were no name tags to indicate who sat where.

"Hey! Teacher!" Students began calling out to a man at the front of the room. "Where do we sit? Where are the name tags?"

The man was writing his name, "Mr. Lein," on the board, and writing "Parent packet" in a square entitled "HOMEWORK."

The man, presumabely Mr. Lein, their teacher, was a shorter, more tubby Hispanic man, his skin a dark, tan color. He wasn't very short, but wasn't very tall either, as he had to stand on his tip-toes to reach the top of the board.

He turned around, and, in no apparent Spanish accent, announced, "For today, you can sit wherever you like, but if I start having problems with you guys talking and disrupting class, I'll have to make a seating chart."

But almost nobody allowed him to finish his sentence, as they'd already began gasping excitedly and rushing towards seats next to their friends. Wirt took a seat in the third row of the left side of room, right on the edge closest to the aisle. Sara sat next to him, as expected, and grinned. "I think this guy'll be nice, huh?"

Wirt only shrugged. "Maybe."

Once everyone had chosen a seat and was sitting down, the teacher loudly smacked a yardstick upon the board, making a few jump, and four girls scream, leaving everyone in a fit of giggles.

"Alright, when I call out your name, come up here and get a packet- the paper on top is for you to work on now, so I can get to know you all better, and the packet is for your parent or guardian to sign."

Mr. Lein cleared his throat, and Wirt sighed, expecting a fairly long wait. He was always one of the last students to be called, as his last name was "Wilson" - all the way at the bottom of the alphabet.

"Angelica... Elijah..."

Soon enough, Wirt was called, and he stood to receive his packet. The first page, the one for them to work on, was full of questions, such as "What is your name?" "What is your favorite food?" "Do you have a pet?"

Wirt filled them all out boredly- "Wirt", "Alfredo pasta", "No."

"What is your hobby?" "Clarinet, reading."

"What is your favorite subje-"

"You write entirely in cursive?" Mr. Lein whispered, so not to distract any of the other diligently-working students.

Wirt nodded up at him. "Yes."

"Good, good, I always admire someone who has such nice handwriting, especially at your age. Just between you and me, not many adults even write like that."

"My third teacher told us all adults write in the cursive, and that you'll have to use it for the rest of your life."

"You didn't hear it from me, but most of us adults have terrible handwriting, and we scribble out everything."

Wirt couldn't help but smile, and Mr. Lein smiled back, proceeding to walk down the aisle to check on the other students' progress.

He looked back down at his paper, still glowing with praise.

To his left, he was elbowed in the upper arm. Wirt looked over, and with a smile and the shake of her head, Sara mimicked, "Yeah, fat crap-head."

The school day had come and gone too fast. As Sara had predicted, Jason gushed over his new class (to be expected from a class clown like him). Wirt didn't eat much of his lunch, and they topped off the school day with a game of Heads Up Seven Up, of which Wirt stood out of, only spectating.

On the bus ride home, Wirt felt a small twinge of joy. That morning, just before he'd left for school, he'd overheard Jonathan telling his mom he'd be working late shift tonight, from four to eleven.

After the five minute bus ride, they arrived at the corner, right on Wirt's and Sara's block.

Sara stood up even before the bus skidded to a halt, receiving a furious look from the bus driver, who'd given her countless scoldings for doing such a thing, saying things about "injury" and "liability" and other confusing grown-up words.

Sara was chipper as she walked, bouncing her backpack behind her and rambling loudly, "That teacher likes you too much already, it's not fair."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're already teacher's pet and it's just because you write in cursive."

"I'm not teacher's pet."

"Yes you are."

"...why does that bother you so much?"

"It doesn't."

"But you're getting all annoyed."

"I'm not getting all annoyed!"

Wirt made a face. Sara was always so competitive, looking for attention and wanting to be liked.

"Besides," she continued, kicking a rock in their path. "I don't even see why cursive is so great, it's not that difficult anyway."

"You're only saying that because you don't know how to do it."

"Oh, shut up!" Sara began leaving several painful yet tickling jabs into Wirt's sides, leaving him laughing and toppling into the grass and curling into himself for defense.

Suddenly, a honk of a car cut off their fun, and much to Wirt's horror, Jonathan's car was slowing to a stop. He rolled down the window and called out, "Wirt, hey, your mom is dropping by the store real quick, but she wanted me to give you this." Jonathan held out his arm.

Wirt's smiled diminished quickly, and now he was shaking. He stood on his wobbly legs and meekly approached the car, seeing what Jonathan was holding. He quickly took the house key, making sure not to accidentally brush his hand against Jonathan's. He rushed back toward Sara and picked up his backpack.

"See you later." Then he paused, and with a hearty smile, waved his arm. "Hi, Sara." He'd only met her once, and that was only when Wirt was seven, and he'd dropped him off at her birthday party.

"Hi!" Sara replied, jumping and waving her arm.

With that, he gave them a small salute and drove off.

Wirt breathed again, and with his head down, returned to walking.

Their walk had no more conversation, no more commotion, just footsteps and scuffs.

After two minutes, Sara turned on her heel towards her house. "I'll see you tomorrow, Wirt."

Wirt could only manage a small "bye" and a forced smile, not even bothering to stop walking.

The remainder of the day consisted of watching _Chowder_ on TV, being forced to hold the screaming little demon and force formula in a bottle down its throat, and a quiet yet relaxed dinner of spaghetti and garlic bread.

Wirt went about his nightly routine, bathing, brushing his teeth, and setting out his clothes for tomorrow.

The following day, Sara did not come to school. Or the day after that. Or the day after that.


	6. Josie Meyer Evans

**It is dark when I wake up. But this time, I am not scared.**

**It's not raining, but drops of water fall from the tips of the leaves in the trees, as if time hasn't moved since the first time I was here.**

**My memory is blurry, but I know which direction the tavern was in. I remember seeing two trees a few feet away from eachother, the one on the left with a huge dent, as if someone had tried to chop it down but had become bored.**

**I take my time to look up and down the bark of the trees I pass. Some of them look as though they have faces- terrified, weeping faces that make me shudder**

**I begin running towards the tavern as the light in its windows come into view. That is, until I see a red-haired girl kneeling in the dirt in front of a tied-up horse, right next to the wall.**

**"Come on, take it, dumb horse," she grumbles, holding hay and sliced carrots in the palm of her left hand. The horse huffs in response and turns up its snout.**

**"I don't think it wants to be fed," I think aloud.**

**The girl turns to look at me, and I freeze. "What, are you some horse professional or something?"**

**"N-no... but it doesn't seem like you are either."**

**The horse snorts and whinnies, eyes shut, looking almost as if it's laughing.**

**The girl narrows her eyes. "I'd teach you a lesson if you weren't like, what, five?"**

**"Nine."**

**She looks me up and down. "Huh. I'm only six years older than you."**

**"You're fifteen?" I ask after counting on my fingers.**

**"I mean... kind of."**

**"What do you mean 'kind of'?"**

**She smiles and crosses her arms. "You're from the waking world, aren't you?"**

**I cock my head to the side. "The what?"**

**But rather than answer, she gives me a grin that makes me a little uneasy. "You're not from around here. You still age."**

**_"...huh_?" I have no idea what she's talking about.**

**She stands up and brushes the dirt off her hands. "Maybe that means one day I'll be able to give you a good knuckle-sandwich without feeling bad." She makes her way toward the tavern, and I follow her eagerly, still with many questions.**

**"Wait, what do you mean, 'I still age'?"**

**She rolls her eyes, taking a seat at the table closest to the door. "You really don't know?"**

**Looking up at her with frantic bewilderment, I shake my head.**

**"Everyone here is... stuck."**

**"Stuck?"**

**She nods. "You're going to keep growing, you're going to become older and eventually you'll be an adult. People like me don't do that."**

**"Wh...wait, what do you mean, 'people like you'?"**

**With a dismissing wave of her hand, she looks out the window. "Never mind, don't worry about it, a little kid like you wouldn't understand."**

**"No, come on, tell me!" I stand up and demand.**

**"What did I say? Look, I'll tell you when you're my size. Or maybe you'll figure it out by yourself."**

**I know better than to keep asking, or her responses will only annoy me more. With a sigh, I cross my arms. "Fine."**

**She doesn't say anything back, and the chattering from the others fills the silence hanging between us like a potent stench. Finally, I sit up and fold my hands in front of me. "So, what's your name?"**

**Her eyes linger over me for a moment, but a smile melts her expression. "It's Beatrice. What's yours?"**

**"Wirt." I flash a smile back.**

**"Well, welcome to the Unknown, Wirt."**

**I look down at my fingers, then ask, "What exactly is this place?"**

**"The tavern?"**

**"No, the..." I raise my hands and do those finger-quote things Sara loves doing. "'The Unknown'."**

**She leans her face so close to mine, I can smell coffee on her breath. "Do you know what the word 'purgatory' means?"**

**I shake my head.**

**"Don't ask what it is, but most of us are in it. Others come here through dreams, people like yourself."**

**"...why do we?"**

**She shrugs. "Good question, nobody really knows. Some think you're seeking to find someone or something you've lost. Some think you're real life is so complicated, you come here to deal with it. Some think you come here when your emotions and thoughts are completely sporadic and you're in great pain and this place gives you a little Zen or something." She leans in close again. "Or, some even say you come here when you're going to die soon."**

**My eyes widen. "Really?"**

**She laughs right in my face, and my cheeks become the same color as her hair. "Those are only rumors though. And I don't think you'll die soon, you're too young and healthy. Have you lost someone recently?"**

**"No..." I think of Sara not coming to school for the past few days, then I stammer, "I-I don't think so."**

**"I can't imagine real life can be too complicated for a little kid. Your family doesn't have money problems, does it?"**

**Not money problems. "No..."**

**She tilts her head to the side and raises a brow. "Are you in great pain?"**

**I look down at my lap, and shrug.**

**"Huh. I was never in much of any pain when I was your age. But it's a pain in the _neck_ to have ten siblings."**

**" _Ten_?"**

**"Mhm. And I'm the oldest, so guess who had to all the chores and babysitting?"**

**"You?"**

**"Yep. Do you have siblings?"**

**"...sort of. He's my half brother."**

**"How old is he?"**

**"He's only a baby, my mom barely came home from the hospital today. Or... yesterday... I-I don't know what time it is at home."**

**"You think that's bad, wait until he gets older. That's when they become sentient."**

**I smile.**

**The sun is coming up outside. I guess time in the Unknown really does go by.**

**I turn to Beatrice. "Will you be here next time I come?"**

**She shrugs, her gaze fixed outside. "Where else do I have to go?"**

**"I guess so. See you next time, Beatrice."**

**"See ya, shrimp."**

xxxxxxx

The yellow school bus, with the peeling number "14" on the side, screeched as it pulled up to the curb. The doors opened with a _woosh_ , and Wirt waited his turn to sit into his usual seat, near the front to the right-hand side.

Wirt stared at the empty seat next to him, and as the bus slowly began to go forward, he sighed.

Then it screeched to a violent halt and the doors swung open once again.

Wirt looked up, and his eyes nearly bulged out of his head as Sara came in, panting after just bolting and waving the bus down like a desperate hitchhiker.

More often than not, she'd greet Wirt with a punch in the arm or a tight arm around the neck, or at the very least with a bright smile.

But today, she was just staring down with her dark hair in her face, covering her eyes.

The bus lurched forward once again, and it didn't stop this time.

Wirt didn't know what to say, or if he should say anything at all. Just as he was about to open his mouth to say her name and perhaps even ask what was wrong, she made the slightest movement to reach inside the small front pocket of her backpack.

Then she moved her head in a quick yet small motion towards him. "Here. My-my dad wanted me t-to give you this..."

Wirt shot her a glance for her finally speaking, and she shakily pulled out something that looked like an index card. With it face-down, she held it out without looking at it.

"Take it, I don't want to see it."

Wirt looked down at the card, then back at Sara with worry clear on his face. Slowly he took it from her. "What is it?"

Sara was biting her upper lip and looking away, and with her broken voice, she snapped, "Just read it."

Wirt winced, and turned it over.

In the center near the bottom was a picture of Sara's little sister, only four years old, one he'd seen plenty of times on the mantle of the fireplace in Sara's house. Sara's little sister smiled from her perch upon a rocking horse, wearing a lacy white dress and a white bonnet to match.

Over her picture were two short sentences. " _Please attend the funeral of Josie Meyer Evans. Will take place this Monday at First Baptist Church from 5:00 PM to 8:30 PM."_

Wirt's mouth became agape. "What happened?"

He immediately regretted asking when Sara sniffled. "Sh-she-she was-" Sara brought her hands up to her eyes. "She was playing out-" She hiccuped back a sob, "outside a-and she... sh-she-she..." Sara's body jolted once, "she fell into the river near the bridge next to our house and she fell and-" She coughed several times and gripped her chest, "she fell and... h-hhh-hit her head on a rock."

"Seriously?" Wirt asked, following a gasp.

Sara couldn't answer, as she bawled into her hands. Wirt shoved the funeral invitation into his backpack and dropped the backpack between his feet. Hastily, he gave her a tight hug in hopes of comforting her. She only leaned on him and cried harder, seeming to have not noticed that the bus had since stopped and the other children were standing up.

He looked out the window and, as expected, he saw Jason kneeling next to a tree, poking at a trail of ants with a twig. Jason looked up and, with a smile that revealed a missing tooth, he waved. Then, he frowned as he caught sight of the crying Sara and brought up both hands in question.

"Come on," Wirt murmured softly. "Let's go, Jason's waiting.

Sara's nod was almost too small to see or feel. Wirt let her go as she stood and adjusted her backpack on her shoulders.

xxxxxxxxxxx

The TV chattered from the living room, but it wasn't quite loud enough to cover Greg's obnoxious screaming and his mother's failed attempts to calm him down with her singing.

Jonathan stood at the sink, washing the lunch dishes to prepare them for the supper Mom had prepared. The corn and roast beef were still piping hot with steam emerging from underneath the pot lids.

Wirt looked from the TV down to his backpack next to his feet. He looked at his mom, whose lips were pursed with shushing noises coming out of them.

He reached down and pulled the invitation from his backpack. "Mom?"

His mom barely even looked at him, only slipping a "yes?" between the stream of hasty shushing.

"Um, there's a, uh..." He held the invitation out to her, and she mumbled it out loud to herself before returning to shushing.

She looked it over, and said, "Oh God, poor thing."

Wirt looked at her expectantly. "Can I go?"

"I don't know, sweetie, maybe ask Jona-" Then she raised her head and called out to the kitchen. "Honey?"

Wirt's stomach collapsed, and it began clawing itself upwards to sit in his throat.

"Yeah?" Jonathan shouted back from the kitchen.

"Wirt was invited to a funeral on Monday, do you think you can drive him? It's just at the church down the street from his school."

He hummed to himself. "Whose?"

"Sara's sister's. Jeez, family must be in pieces."

"Sara? Hey, isn't that his friend from near the bus stop?"

"That's the one. So, can you?"

Jonathan scratched the back of his head. "Not really, I'm holding that poker game here, remember?"

"Oooh, yeah, shoot."

Wirt butted in quietly, though only to his mom. "Can you take me?"

"No, I can't, sweetie, Mrs. Daniels invited me to dinner, remember?"

Wirt sighed. "Yes..."

"Come on, I'm sure if you asked, Sara's father would be happy to drive you. Or, how about you ask your dad?"

Wirt beamed. He hadn't thought of that. Without another word, he leapt up from the couch and picked up the telephone from the table in the upstairs hallway.

And with the click of the phone hanging up, he had a funeral to attend Monday evening.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That night in his room as he turned out the light, his thoughts spun with wondering what he should wear, whether or not he should bring food, if it would be impolite to come early, or-

His thoughts seized to a halt and hid within the blood rushing to his ears as heavy footsteps approached his bedroom.

He clenched his fists as the door slid open and shut with a click as silent as it was deadly- not quite but almost.

Wirt's chest threatened to give out over his pounding heartbeat, and he almost threw up the very little bits of corn and roast beef in his stomach as Jonathan's belt slid across his jeans, free from the loops, and clattered to the floor.

Tears gathered in Wirt's eyes as Jonathan's weight and shadow loomed over him.

Softly, Jonathan mumbled, "Do you like Sara?"

Jonathan leaned down closer, his hot breath on Wirt's ear, and whispered with a dash of laughter, "Do you think she'd like me?"

Suddenly, the thought of Jonathan touching Sara made Wirt's blood boil, and in a foolishly brave move he'd never once pulled before, he snatched the clarinet case from beside his bed and slammed it into Jonathan's jaw. Immediately, Jonathan snatched the case away and tossed it onto the floor, his breath hitched in his throat with pure, animalistic, red-hot rage. He gave Wirt three hard backhands to the right side of his face, leaving Wirt holding the bruising spot and panting with pain.

"You pull that shit again, and the only funeral you'll be going to is your own."

Then, he flipped Wirt over, and as with every other time this happened, Wirt's attempts to fly away in his head and pretend it wasn't happening were in vain, and the pulsing pain in his cheek didn't help either.

After the sick ordeal that left Wirt limp and physically numb yet burning at the same time, Jonathan's hand over his mouth muffled his shivering and crying. He leaned down and whispered, "If anyone asks what happened to your face, you tell them you fell out of bed and hit your face-" He tapped upon the edge of the bedside table softly with his nail, "- right here, got it?"

Wirt nodded, only to have the side of his head smacked and the phrase "got it?" growled once again in his ear, to which he replied in his tiny voice, "Yes, sir."

The door shut, and as he pulled his pants back up and pulled his covers over himself, he gravely hoped that the next funeral he went to would be his own.


	7. Franky and his Polaroid

Of all the voices that filled the church pews with their solemn mumbling, Sara's was not one of them. She sat with her face in her hand at the furthest end of the front row on the right side of the room.

Wirt took several minutes to spot her, and when he did, he glanced up behind him at his father, who was chatting with a coworker. Wirt nudged him and pointed toward Sara, and his father nodded permissively.

"Hi, Sara," Wirt greeted, taking the seat next to her. She just raised a limp left hand. She was staring at the wall, as if adamantly refusing to look at the closed casket and the flowers resting upon it.

Wirt frowned and looked down at his lap. He absentmindedly began picking small bits of dust off his black suit pants, and he looked at his dad, who'd sat down on the left side of the room.

He began looking around at everyone sitting at the pews, all of which were either weeping, hugging, kissing, or passing over Tupperwares of food that must be microwaved for later.

"Jason didn't come, he-" Sara sniffled, and Wirt looked over at her, "-he had a birthday party to go to."

"Oh."

Sara buried her face in her hands. "I don't think she's coming."

"Who?"

"Mom." She rubbed the tears from her eyes. "She said she'd come here on the nearest flight but she said she'd be here at noon."

"Oh..." Wirt picked at his nails uncomfortably, not knowing how to respond.

As if to end the depressing silence hanging between them, the clock read 5:31, and everyone began shuffling around to take a seat. As soon as the music started, Sara bolted into the hallway.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

You could hear the laughing and the slamming of Poker chips upon the dining room table from outside, it was so loud and obnoxious.

Wirt winced and slowly opened the door with Stephen close behind.

"They're upstairs," Wirt said, "I'll go get 'em right now."

He darted up the stairs to his room and gathered all the VHS tapes from next to his TV. He carefully balanced them in his arms and, with his back to the wall, he slowly descended the stairs, tongue in his teeth with concentration in his hopes not to drop all the tapes.

Stephen was already at his side, taking the tapes and turning to take them out to the car.

"Wait a minute," Wirt muttered, looking over at Jonathan and the several other men at the table.

Then, cautiously now, he looked over at the glass cupboard next to the TV, in which Jonathan had trapped the VCR,

as well as the copy of _Radio Flyer_ inside of it.

Wirt took a deep breath and walked into the living room. He knelt down next to the cupboard and slowly opened it, taking the bulky VCR out and setting it softly on the carpet.

He plugged it in and winced as it started up with several loud chugs and clicks. With the click of the 'EJECT' button, _Radio Flyer_ freed itself, and Wirt anxiously pulled it out, scrambling upwards and approaching his dad. He added it to the stack of tapes and smiled. "Okay, that's all."

"Alright, see you later." He ruffled Wirt's hair and shut the door behind him as he left.

Wirt took to returning to pack the VCR away back into the cupboard when he heard low laughter his way.

He looked up, and Jonathan and another man, with dark, spiky hair and a greasy beard, were mumbling to eachother whilst looking over at Wirt with sly grins.

Wirt's faced turned bright red and he looked down, suddenly shaking and wanting to run.

He peeked up at them again, and to his sudden horror, Jonathan was handing the stranger the key to the garage.

Then, he stood up, and Jonathan ordered, "Come on, Wirt, go with Franky over here."

"Yeah, buddy, let's go, I gotta show you something."

Wirt held back the urge to throw up the casserole he'd eaten at the funeral, and stood up. He slowly trudged his way over to the man, and he became light-headed as the man's hand on his shoulder led him to the garage.

The only thing this man had to show him was that he was as horrible as Jonathan was. Wirt didn't move as his jacket, tie, shirt, and pants were pulled off of him, he only tried to swallow back his tears.

He did the same things Jonathan did, but the only difference was that this man had a Polaroid camera, and he used it to document everything.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**Atop the branch of a tall tree, a few feet away from the tavern, a blue bird examines her wings, grumbling in sorrow and frustration.**


	8. The Beast

**The air is humid, cold, and smells like wet concrete.**

**I glance up towards the direction of the tavern, but instead of going forward, I turn around and peer through all the dark trees and the endlessness beyond them.**

**Today, I want to explore, just a little.**

**The trees are the exact opposite of inviting, and I'm almost tempted to turn back and make my way to the tavern, but I don't.**

**Everything around me lookes the same, yet different, with all the same puddles and trees and stumps.**

**I hear a voice singing, a man's voice all old and strained. To accompany it are several "pip-pip-pip"s, and then these weird cracking noises.**

**Then, it stops, and I feel a shadow above me. I look up and I cry out, jumping back and landing on my bottom as a tree falls. It hits the Earth loudly, making it shake, just inches from my foot.**

**Then, I hear deep laughter from behind me. I stand up quickly and turn around, but I only see a shadow disappearing behind a tree. I am panting, but I try to keep it silent.**

**I hear footsteps behind me, crunching the damp leaves, but when I turn, there is no shadow.**

**"What are you doing here?!"**

**I am looking at a large, old man, wearing heavy coats, gripping my shoulders and shaking me. Next to him, he's dropped a lantern and an ax.**

**Upon seeing the ax, I yelp and begin to squirm in his grip, but he only grips my arms tighter.**

**"The Beast is upon thee, the Beast is upon thee! You must leave, boy, you must leave these woods, before he-"**

**I wrench myself from his grip and back away quickly.**

**"Before he-"**

**I turn on my heel and run, not stopping once.**

**"Before he- _oh, ho, ho_."**

**The man moans woefully, but I keep going until I've reached the tavern.**

**I let the door slam behind me, and I rest up against the door.**

**"'Ey, Pilgrim, what's got you so wired, eh?" The tavern-keeper sets a glass of water in front of me. I take several large gulps.**

**"There- there was- a man-" I manage through exhausted breaths. "He said- the Beast-"**

**"'The Beast'?" The tavern-keeper gasped, and everyone began whispering amongst eachother.**

**I look around at them all, suddenly scared. "What?"**

**"Pilgrim, the Beast is an evil being-"**

**The butcher cuts her off, "-who takes little kids like you-"**

**Then the tailor, in his weepy voice, "- or, in fact, any vulnerable soul-"**

**The midwife, "-and turns them into a tree-"**

**I jump as the master sneaks up behind me and murmurs in my ear, "-and he takes that tree, grinds it up-"**

**And finally, from my feet, the apprentice tops it all off with, "-and puts the oil into his lantern!"**

**I furrow my brows. "His lantern? But, the man was the one with the lantern, he just looked like a normal-"**

**"Pilgrim! Don't let him fool you!" The tavern-keeper leans in close with a look of warning on her face. "If you fall for his tricks, you'll seize to be!"**

**Then, I hear Beatrice's voice. "He's from the waking world, his fate wouldn't be the same."**

**Everyone begins chattering loudly.**

**I look up, but I can't find Beatrice.**

**Where did her voice come from?**

**The tavern-keeper joins the conversation, and everyone talks loudly. I sneak off and sit down at the table next the door, staring outside whilst trying to avoid the riot I'd just caused.**

**I hear her voice again. "Hey."**

**I look up, but I only see a blue bird fluttering and perching upon the window sill next to me. I blink at it, but turn my attention away. No, it can't be.**

**The blue bird lands on my shoulder, and suddenly, I hear her voice next to me again. "Look at the ruckus you've caused."**

**I barely get through the word "look" before falling backwards from my chair with a shout. Luckily, no one from the shouting cluster has heard me, but the bird laughs in Beatrice's voice.**

**It flies above me, and from the floor, I cry out, "Beatrice?"**

**She laughing hysterically. "Look at you!"**

**I groan and roll onto my side, standing up. "Be quiet- but, wh-wha-what happened to you?"**

**"My family!" She cries through her laughter. "We were all cursed, and now we're blue birds!"**

**"Really?" I'm not sure whether I should believe her.**

**She sighs, covering up her beak and taking a deep breath to calm her laughing fit.**

**"What happened?"**

**"I threw a rock at a bluebird, and you know... The rock hit the window of the guy who sent us here. So he turned us into bluebirds." She perches onto the back of the other chair. "But I've been listening around, and it turns out this guy is good friends with the Beast, and the Beast plans on using him as his next servant for the lantern or something."**

**"Wait, what do you mean, 'the guy that sent you here'?"**

**"The guy who- well... do you remember what I told you about the whole, uh... 'purgatory' thing?"**

**"Yeah." I nod.**

**"Back when my family was still alive, marrying off your daughters was kind of the norm. So my parents put me into this arranged marriage, but I refused. The groom-to-be got all angry, and took a rifle and... you know."**

**"He..."**

**"Yep." Beatrice nodded sadly.**

**I think I finally understand what 'purgatory' means.**

**"So that means that everyone here is-" I turn and look at all of them.**

**"Mhm, they're all-" She lowers her voice to a whisper. "-deceased."**

**I recognize the word 'deceased' from Josie's funeral. Then, I begin to wonder...**

**"Beatrice? How long does it take somebody to end up in the Unknown?"**

**"Some get here almost immediately, some take a little longer when they haven't accepted their death."**

**"And can you make someone come here? Like... someone who's never been here before?"**

**"Doubt it, I don't think anybody's come here of their own will, I think they just... do."**

**"...okay."**

**When I look up, the sky is becoming just slightly luminous, and blue is starting to pop out from the clouds.**

xxxxxxxxxxx

"...see, you can divide both the nine and twelve by three, and now both fractions have a four at the bottom, someone tell me what this is called..."

Several students began shouting out the answer, but Mr. Lein intervened, waving everyone's hands down. "No, no, no shouting out, no hands, I'm calling a random volunteer, who can give me the answer..." His eyes wandered upon the desks, and he points. "Wirt, what's this called?"

But Wirt, as he used a blue marker to color in his drawing, doesn't hear his name being called.

"Wirt," Mr. Lein repeated, and Wirt looked up.

"Huh?"

Laughter swept like a wave over the children, and Wirt would have slouched down in his seat if his rear end hadn't hurt so much.

He looked over the board at the nonsensical numbers splattered about eachother. "What was the question...?"

Mr. Lein pointed to the fraction on the board with its colored coded parts. "The fractions both have the number four as the bottom number, the four is what?"

"Oh, the, uh... the common denominator."

"Precisely." Then, Mr. Lein approached his desk and tapped the paper Wirt had been drawing on. "What's this?"

"A... Nothing."

"Well, save 'nothing' for after class, okay?" To Wirt's horror, Mr. Lein took the paper and walked back to the front of the room.

From next to him, Sara pointed a hidden finger at him and gave him a quiet 'ooooooooh.' Wirt rolled his eyes and looked away.

The bell rang, and Wirt shoved everything into his backpack, watching Sara wave to him and walk out.

Wirt slowly approached the teacher's desk, and Mr. Lein looked up at him. "Yes, Mr. Wilson?"

Wirt almost raised his eyebrows at such a title. "Can I- can I have my drawing back?"

Mr. Lein nodded, but not in confirmation. He nodded in a way that indicated he'd remembered something. He pulled out Wirt's drawing, which'd been tucked away in a cabinet, and pointed to the man Wirt had drawn with the ax and lantern.

"Mr. Wilson, who is this?"

"I don't know," Wirt replied with his head hung.

"You don't know?"

"No." Wirt shook his head. "He hasn't told me."

"You've talked to him?"

"Um..." Wirt looked shyly over at the desks.

"How about this bird? Is this anyone?"

Wirt bit his lip and nodded.

"Who?"

"Her name's Beatrice. She used to be human but she's a bird now. She's older than me but she says she's never going to grow up so someday I'll be older than her." Wirt suddenly realized how he'd just about spilled those words from his mouth, and he shut his lips tightly.

"Why is she a bird now?"

Wirt felt slightly uncomfortable with Mr. Lein's line of questioning. Why was he asking all this?

"'Cause of the Beast."

"Who's the Beast?"

Wirt shrugged. "I don't know, I haven't seen him yet."

"Then how do you know he exists?"

"The people in the tavern told me."

Mr. Lein only nodded slowly with a thoughtful, squint-eyed expression, then handed the drawing back. "Okay, thank you, Mr. Wilson."

Wirt looked between Mr. Lein and the drawing, and turned to leave, until another question was thrown at him.

"You play the clarinet, right?"

Wirt turned back to him. "...yeah? How did you know?"

"The paper I had you guys do on the first day, remember? You listed the clarinet as one of your hobbies."

"Oh... yeah. Sort of, my dad gave me one for Christmas. I don't play all that much, I'm trying to learn how by myself."

"Wow, self-teaching, huh? That's impressive."

"Yeah, it's difficult though, just a little."

"Well, you know they have a band teacher here, right?"

Wirt shook his head. "They do?"

"Yep, and once you become better-" He unpinned a pamphlet from his bulletin board, "-you can join a community children's band."

Wirt took the pamphlet and looked over it.

Mr. Lein continued. "It's only for grades six to twelve, but you only have a couple years to go. And in high school, you can join the marching band-"

Wirt felt his gut wrench.

_Sweaty and panting, Jonathan tore the shako from Wirt's head, and with one hand over Wirt's mouth, he reached his hand behind his neck and undid the hook at the top of the jacket._

Wirt frantically shook his head. "No, I-I'm not- I don't plan to... do that."

Mr. Lein frowned. "That's entirely up to you, you don't have to. But I think it'd be great if you continued music into your academic career-"

Mr. Lein droned on, and Wirt tried to calm his breath.

_Wirt nearly suffocated from the weight on him and the lips and breath on his chest and neck. Everything hurt everything hurts get off of me it's bad it's gross I hate this take me home stop it stop it stop it-_

"Wirt?" Mr. Lein's voice broke through his thoughts, and Wirt shook the flashback from his head.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry-" He dropped the pamphlet. "I need to go, I-I-"

"Hey, buddy, calm down, take a breath-"

"No, no, I need to go." Wirt began bolting out of the classroom, living Mr. Lein bewildered.

He rushed into the nearest bathroom and dropped his backpack. His stomach stirred and next thing he new, he was on his knees next to a toilet, head throbbing and his brain numb and fuzzy. Then, what little food he had in his stomach was no longer there, now it was in the toilet mixed with bile and saliva. Drops of it splattered on the toilet seat and his trembling chin.

He shook violently and tore off a piece of toilet paper from the dispenser. He cringed at the smell and taste as he wiped it off his mouth and off the toilet seat.

And as if nothing ever happened, he stood up blankly, flushed the toilet, and with his backpack over his shoulders, walked out the bathroom to the bus stop.

_October 27th. Bad things happen on Halloween._


	9. A Beastly Encounter

At night, the houses were lined with turned-on porch lights and Jack-o-Lanterns grinning at the sidewalk with their glowing eyes. Some neighbors kept their yards simple, with tissue paper bats taped to the garage doors and walls, some put in seemingly no effort, with a meer pumpkin sitting on the step, a bowl of candy on a plastic chairs with a piece of paper which read, " **PLEASE TAKE ONE**." And some neighbors outdid themselves, decorating the doors with fake blood, the pillars with skeletons, and their lawn with faux mechanical corpses, luminating them with purple and red lights that made it seem too real for screaming little kids.

During the day, the decorations stirred a simultaneous feeling of emptiness and excitement, in the knowledge that, very soon, come Halloween, the streets would be lively and full of spooks and scares.

Greg didn't have any say in his Halloween costume, being that he was only a little over a month old. Instead, he was stuck squirming around in a corn-on-the-cob costume that Heather thought was just _too cute_.

Wirt didn't have a costume. Through overhearing conversations between Jonathan and Heather, he found out that Jonathan and Wirt's mom would take Greg out to look at the decorations, and Heather would stay at their house to pass out candy to trick-or-treaters. Wirt chose to stay and help her, bringing over packages of candy when the bowl ran out and providing bandaids for the clumsy toddlers who fell off the porch step.

The evening was pleasant. Wirt listened to Heather talk about her childhood in Germany with her strict parents, about the time she auditioned for a game show, about how when Jonathan, his younger sister, and his even younger brother were children, their holiday decorations would be the talk of their tiny town. Then she want on to tell solemnly of the car accident that had killed the youngest child, who'd been only fourteen at the time.

Their holiday ended at 10:30 that night, when the amount of children on the street lessened and more porch lights flickered off.

When the sound of a stroller, bumping over the cracks in the sidewalk, neared their house, Wirt stood and rushed to the kitchen, throwing out the empty bags and putting the unfinished ones into the pantry so not to call attention to himself. He could hear Heather unbuckling Greg's stroller and picking him up to leave hot-pink kisses all over his face, while he attempted a tiny smile and a gurgle.

Heather tossed her purse over her shoulder and embraced Wirt tightly. "You can keep the candy, sweetheart, you're such a good little helper!" She left wet kisses on Wirt's face, and Wirt winced. As soon as she turned away, he wiped them off his face, earning a look from Jonathan.

"I'll see you guys, soon." With a grin, she pointed to Jonathan. "And you behave."

"Can't promise that much," he replied, and Heather laughed as she shut the door.

"Go to bed, sweetie," his mother said, brushing her fingers through his hair, "it's late."

Wirt nodded, and hurried up the stairs. He shut the door, and considered locking it.

It'd been exactly one year. Exactly one year since Hell started.

As he shut off the light and curled up under his covers, he wondered how many more would follow. How many more Halloweens he'd be trapped.

He shut his eyes tightly as footsteps approached his door.

xxxxxxxxx

**Like the first time I came here, it's raining.**

**I wipe the raindrops from my eyelashes and begin on my way towards the tavern when, all of a sudden, I hear rustling behind me.**

**I only see the fallen tree, lying still and heavy.**

**I look up, and between the branches, there they are.**

**There are two circles, glowing, bright enough to luminate the branches coming out of the thing's head like long, trunk-like horns.**

**I blink and it is gone.**

**I'm too scared to move now.**

**Suddenly, I feel something tug on the back of my shirt, and I choke as it pulls me backward onto the tree trunk. My toes touch the mud on the ground, and I realize that whatever is pulling me is trying to make me sit down.**

**With the collar of my shirt released, I catch my breath, but lose it immediately when I see the two glowing circles right in front of my face. I don't mean to, but my throat makes a noise, like a little whine.**

**"Don't worry," the thing says. Its voice is deep and rumbly. "I won't hurt you."**

**I gulp and stammer, "Wh-who-who are you?"**

**The thing holds up his hands as if presenting himself. "Most call me the Beast. I'm sure you won't think of me otherwise."**

**The thing, or the Beast now, is staring right into my eyes, and I feel the way Jonathan makes me feel, as if he can see through me, and see how petrified I am. What else can he see?**

**"I suppose you already know who I am," He laughs.**

**I nod, mouth hanging partly open.**

**"Then I'll just cut to the chase." He wraps his branchy fingers around my arm, and when I look down, his fingers are growing, wrapping my upper arm and elbow with branches. I cry out, and attempt to pull my arm away, but the branches only squeeze tighter and press painfully into my arms. Tears come to my eyes and I grit my teeth as I look it him.**

**"I know you're suffering," he rumbles. "I know you come here because you're lonely, looking for something to preserve what very little innocence you have left."**

**I just stare at him, silent but equally terrified.**

**"You know it can stop."**

**My mouth shakes as I try to form a coherent sentence, but it only comes out as one word. "...can?"**

**"Yes, of course. Only if you come with me."**

**He holds out his hand, and I stare down at it, contemplating. I'm already reaching out to grab it.**

_**Pilgrim, don't let him fool you! If you fall for his tricks, you'll seize to be!** _

**Slowly, I shake my head and pull my hand away. "No."**

**"What!"**

**"I... they told me not to."**

**"Who?"**

**I press my lips together. I don't want to rat on them, or who knows what he'll do?**

**"Fine, then. Don't tell me." Suddenly, he grins. "I'll just go after that brother of yours."**

**"Gre- _no_!"**

**"You must believe I will. Why do you care? You don't like him anyway."**

**I'm shaking, and I want to run. "B-b-but-"**

**"Hush," He whispers, outstretching his arm. "Just let him go."**

**I look up, and Greg's little body is being gripped still in the Beast's cold, dark hands, unmoving with fear in his wide eyes.**

**The Beast squeezes on him, and I hear a crunch.**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Wirt awoke, he panted and clutched onto himself. His ears rung, and his vision was all fuzzy around the edges. He wanted to be rid of the excess feeling of the nightmare and for once, he actually wanted to feel more like he was in his own bed.

In the other room, Greg was crying loudly. Wirt hadn't processed it when he first came into consciousness, but now, it horrified him, and he was on his feet, bolting towards the nursery.

When he opened the door, Jonathan stood next to the crib, bouncing Greg in his arms, his silhouette only lit up slightly by the nightlight and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Wirt stood in the doorway, staring and petrified. It felt almost as if the nursery was the only room in the world, and beyond the walls, there was nothing.

Jonathan looked up at him, and stopped bouncing the baby. "Go to bed."

But Wirt's legs refused to move him, and he only stood still in the doorway.

"It's late. Go to bed." Jonathan continued, more demanding now.

"I-I-"

Wirt realized how serious Jonathan was being when he set the baby down. He almost wanted to leap forward, in fear Jonathan would drop Greg too hard and hurt him, but Wirt stayed in his spot, watching with horror as Jonathan neared him with his finger out.

With grit teeth, he said, " _Go to your room before I have to make you_."

When Wirt finally found the strength in his legs to move, he darted to his room and shut the door. Rather then lie in his bed, he curled up under it with his toes curled.


	10. Strange Doctor

Wirt was standing on a plastic chair, and for this reason, Mr. Lein had the door closed. If somebody walked in and saw Wirt standing on the chair, he'd risk his job because of a safety hazard.

Wirt had four different colored markers between the fingers of his right hand, and the color he was using in his left. He was coloring in what he'd drawn on the board, the outline of a circle, several different lines protruding out of it, and two circles as eyes.

"This is the Beast," Wirt explained. "I met him when I was in the Unknown."

Mr. Lein asked, "What's the Unknown?"

"The forest, where dead people go. When they die, they go to this big forest with a tavern. That's what Beatrice said, anyway."

"Beatrice is the bird-girl, correct?" Mr. Lein pointed to the bluebird Wirt had drawn.

"Uh-huh. The Beast turned her into one, and her entire family too." Wirt began filling in the Beast's head with black marker. "The Beast is evil, the tavern-keeper told me. She says he turns people into trees and uses the oil in those trees to light his lantern." Wirt switched the black marker for a yellow one to fill in the Beast's eyes. "He tried to make me go with him too."

"Did he tell you this when he met you?"

"He wanted to, he told me to take his hand and go with him. I told him no, and then he-" Wirt frowned, and his hand slid off the board slowly, "he said he'd get my brother."

Mr. Lein nodded, eyebrows furrowed. "Were you scared?"

Reluctantly, Wirt nodded. "Yeah."

"Wirt, are these people that you imagined?"

Wirt blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Are they real?"

Wirt looked at his drawing of Beatrice and murmured, "I think they are." Then, he looked at the clock on the wall, and shut the markers with a gasp. "I need to go, my bus will be here soon!" He picked up his backpack and rushed out, without a goodbye.

Mr. Lein examined the nine-year-old's picture of the Beast and the bluebird, and with a sigh, he erased it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That evening, Elspeth stopped by the store, leaving Jonathan to have his way her son while she was gone. As soon as she returned, Wirt locked his door and tried to calm himself down as he cried. It took him a little while, but he managed to regain his composure. He pulled open his drawers and pulled out a pair of warm sweatpants and a beige sweater just a bit too big for him, so the sleeves hung past his hands. He crept downstairs and peeked out. Jonathan was looking through a magazine in the dining room. Wirt took this chance to scurry out into the living room and lie down on the couch. He created a little pillow with his arms by bending them over the arm of the couch and laying on them, and he kept his knees close to his chest with his weary eyes on the television.

His mother was sitting in Jonathan's armchair and cradling a swaddled, sleeping Greg.

Suddenly, the home phone rang, and Greg stirred in his sleep.

Wirt's mother hushed him, and stood up. "Sweetie, can you hold your brother for a second?"

She handed Greg off, and Wirt watched as his mother picked up the phone.

A voice spoke on the other line. "Hello?... Yes, this is her." She listened for a minute, and then looked at Wirt with a look of confusion and fear. Wirt looked back at her, looking just confused amd afraid.

"Okay, but how-" She continued over the telephone. She listened, and responded, "No, no, he's- no, he was never like this before."

She picked up a pen and began writing something on an old receipt, frowning at everything she wrote. Jonathan was looking at her as well.

Finally, she concluded the call with, "Okay... thank you, good bye." Though the 'thank you' didn't sound very sincere.

She hung the phone up, and stared down troubledly at what she'd written. "Jon, can I talk to you for a minute?"

He nodded, sending Wirt a warning glance before getting up and following her out of the room and into the garage.

The door shut, and Wirt set the baby down gently and tip-toed toward it to hear what they were saying. Their murmurs were hardly audible, and Wirt strained to listen.

"It was his teacher," his mom said.

"What did he want?" This was Jonathan. Wirt flinched.

His mother took a deep breath. "His teacher says he had a panic attack in his class after school and that Wirt has been telling him about... about these people-"

"What people, what do you mean?"

"Right here, I wrote down what he said, he thinks Wirt has anxiety... he doesn't talk to anyone but Sara and his friend Jason on the playground, and... he says he might be having hallucinations."

"He thinks..."

"He thinks he might have a mental disorder." Wirt heard his mom begin to cry.

"El, honey, there's nothing wrong with him, we'll take him to a therapist to sort it all out, but our son-" Wirt clenched his fist and grit his teeth- he is not Jonathan's son, "-is okay."

Elspeth sniffled. "...alright..."

Wirt heard the door open, and he bolted back to the couch, picking Greg back up and trying to appear undisturbed.

He felt eyes on him, both his mother's and Jonathan's.

xxxxxx

The following day, Wirt was pulled out of class.

He wondered why that day and the day before had been so weird. What was going on? Had he done something wrong?

He entered the office, where his mother was waiting, hands folded. When she saw him, she threw on a smile and stood up with her hand out. "Come on, sweetie."

"What's wrong?" Wirt asked.

He didn't receive an answer. Today, he was allowed in the front seat. Jonathan was most likely at work, and Wirt would have been content if he wasn't so caught up in the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

They drove for nearly ten minutes in silence, before pulling into the parking lot of a very large brick building. Wirt climbed out and looked at it, waiting for his mother to grab her purse and take him in.

He opened the glass entrance door when his mom urged him forward, and looked up and down at the cream-colored walls and dull blue carpeted floors. It was quiet and empty, with doors among each wall.

"Go to that one," his mother ordered him, pointing to the furthest door on the left. Wirt did as he was told.

Behind the door was a bright yellow office with toys scattered on the floor, and a counter with a friendly-looking woman behind it.

"Sit down, I'll sign you in."

Elspeth went up to the counter and told the woman, "Wirt Wilson, 2:30."

"Date of birth?" The woman asked.

Wirt turned his attention away from them and turned to look at the door. There was a mail slot and a plaque that read, "Dr. Meecham, Pediatric Psych."

Wirt frowned at the complication of the words and sighed. Why was he here?

Almost as soon as Elspeth sat down, a door opened and a tall, lanky man in a suit, with a long, skinny face, a short stubble, and light brown hair, stood in the doorway with a clipboard in the skinny fingers of his right hand. "Wilson? Wirt Wilson?" Wirt looked up at his mother.

"Go with the doctor, sweetie. Just talk to him and answer the questions he asks you."

Hesitantly, he stood and followed the doctor.

He didn't look much like a doctor. He didn't wear a long, white coat. As Wirt looked at the hall he was being led down, he saw a water dispenser, but he didn't see a scale, nor any other doctors. The office was small and had only three rooms, one of which was shut. The other one was open just enough to determine it was a bathroom. The man led him into a room with two couches, a bookshelf, and a tidy waste-basket with only a tissue and a crumpled piece of paper.

There was no bed, there were no stethoscopes or lights to be stuck in your ears or mouth, or pointed at your eyes or nose. There wasn't even a counter with a sink.

"Not a typical type of doctor, huh?" The man chuckled. He sat down at the couch nearest to his desk. "Sit down."

Wirt sat down at the couch across from him, bouncing his leg and looking at the bookshelf.

"Nervous?"

Wirt lied and shook his head. "Who are you?"

"My name is Dr. Meecham, but there's no need to worry, I'm not the type of doctor to stick you with needles. I'm just here to talk to to you."

Wirt frowned. "Okay..."

"Wirt, do you know why you're here?"

Wirt shook his head.

The man explained, "Well, your mother says that your teacher told her that you don't seem to be very happy. Is that true?"

Wirt shrugged. "I don't know.

"You don't know if you're happy or not?"

Wirt looked down at his sneakers.

"It's okay," Dr. Meecham reassured him. "Don't be afraid. Has anything big happened in your life lately?"

Wirt hummed in a melancholy tone. "Not for me, but my friend Sara's sister died."

"Oh, gosh, that must be difficult for her. What happened?"

"She told me that her sister fell into a river while playing outside."

The doctor scribbled something down, and Wirt was eager to see what it was. "Were you there when it happened?"

"No," Wirt replied. "Sara wasn't there either."

"Hmm... alright." The doctor unclicked his pen. "How about home? How are things at home?"

Wirt shrugged. "They're okay..."

"Anything new lately?"

Wirt hesitated. "...no... not... lately. My mom had my baby brother."

"Oh, that's great! Do you like him?"

"He's okay..."

"Does he cry a lot?" Dr. Meecham leaned his arm on the back of his seat, as if to stand up.

"Yeah. My mom has a hard time making him stop."

Suddenly, Dr. Meecham leaned in real close, and asked, "When he cries, do you feel like hurting him?"

Wirt shook his head. "No...?"

"You can call me the truth, Wirt."

"I don't feel like hurting him," Wirt asserted.

"Your mother also tells me that you told you teacher that you've been seeing things. Can you tell me what you see?"

Why was Dr. Meecham making it seem so cryptic?

Wirt began running over all the things quickly. "There's a big forest called the Unknown. I've met a girl named Beatrice who turned into a blue bird, a man with a lantern, a bunch of people in a tavern, and the Beast."

"Tell me about the Beast. Is he mean or nice?"

Wirt looked up at the ceiling, not understanding why this doctor acted so weirdly and spoke to him like he was five. "Mean."

"Does he tell you to do bad things?"

"No... I only met him once. He wanted me to go with him, but I told him no, because the tavern-keeper told me he'd turn me into a tree and use that tree for lantern oil, and that I'd ' _seize to be_ '."

Dr. Meecham began scribbling again. "Did you go with him?"

Wirt shook his head. "No. But I almost did."

"And what happened after that?"

"He said he'd kill my brother."

More scribbling. "When did you start seeing things?"

"I don't know... a little before my brother was born I think."

"Hmm..." On the paper, Dr. Meecham started drawing some lines. "Do you think it could have something to do with your brother? Maybe you're upset for his being born?"

"I don't know..."

Wirt jumped as a shrill sounded from the desk. The source of the noise, a clock, was rattling against the top of the desk in an almost annoying manner.

"Well, our time's up. Can I talk to your mother?" Dr. Meecham asked. Wirt was already on his feet, ready to leave this strange doctor and his strange office. He nodded, exiting the room and dashing out to the waiting room.

Upon her son returning, Elspeth stood up and looked up at the doctor who was following close behind.

"Ma'am, may I please speak with you?"

Wirt watched his mother nod and disappear behind the door.

The door was not very soundproof, but he could only make out very long words that he didn't understand.

" _Disassociative... antisocial... possible schizophrenic symptoms..._ "

Wirt sighed and looked up at the nearly inaudible television, but the animated blue dog leaving pawprints around for his non-animated owner to find did not interest him one bit.

Finally, the door opened, and his mother came out with one hand towards him, and on hand at her side with a packet of paper.

"Come on, sweetie, let's go home."

Wirt slid off his seat and allowed her soft, shaking hand to take is small, clammy one.

As they exited the door, Wirt paid the strange doctor one last glance before the door closed on his face.

There was only silence as Wirt and Elspeth climbed into the car. As Elspeth pulled out of the parking lot, Wirt looked up at her.

"What did he say?"

Elspeth only shook her head. "Nothing. Everything's okay." It sounded more like she was telling herself than she was telling her son.

Wirt looked down, silently wondering what those long words had meant, what the strange doctor had said about him, and why his mom was so upset.


	11. Sick

In the beginning, Elspeth crushed the pills up and put them into Wirt's milk with his breakfast in the morning. When he discovered what she'd been doing, he began refusing to eat unless she truly managed to guilt-trip him. Then he'd shamefully choke the pill down and hold back tears.

He didn't want to take the pill, he refused to let them believe his brain was sick. He didn't care about whatever the strange doctor had said about him, he didn't care about the long words,

because he knew he wasn't the sick one.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Gregory ran around the living room, stumbling, tripping, rubbing his knees raw on the carpet upon impact, but the two-year-old only laughed the burning pain away and kept going.

Wirt could hear him from his bedroom, and he tried to cover his ears to block his brother out. He could hardly focus on his homework as it was, and Greg wasn't making it any easier.

It was only a month into sixth grade, and Wirt was already having a difficult time with his schoolwork.

His teachers weren't all that bad, besides the PE teacher, a built, bald man who yelled a lot and made you run around the field if you talked while he was talking. He had both Jason and Sara in math, only Sara in PE, and only Jason in history and English. The rest of the classes were intimidating, with faces of those Wirt had barely known from elementary school and some he'd never met.

" _Er_!"

Wirt jumped and turned around, wondering how he hadn't heard Greg toddling over to his room and opening the door.

"What do you want?" Wirt asked, sounding a little demanding.

" _Dehr_!" Greg, bouncing and pointing towards the stairs.

"There?"

" _Dehr_!" He proceeded to make chomping noises with his mouth, and covered his hicuppy laughter with his chubby, little hands.

Oh, _dinner_.

"Okay, I'll be right there."

Greg toddled out of the doorway, and Wirt could hear him sliding down the stairs on his diaper-padded bottom.

Wirt took a deep breath and stood up, walking to the kitchen and sitting in his normal spot. Lately, the seat next to him had two phone books and a pillow stacked on it, as a makeshift booster. It gave Greg the opportunity to smear food not only on himself, but on the table as well.

"...tomorrow we will have temperatures of 59° with some rainfall..."

Wirt looked up at his mother, who stood humming at the counter with mashed potatoes on the stove.

Jonathan sat on the couch, reading glasses on his face while he flipped through a magazine.

"...An anonymous local 13-year-old girl has alleged she was repeated sexually assaulted by her mother's boyfriend, whose name will also not he disclosed-"

Wirt hadn't even noticed he'd looked up at the television until the channel was switched. When he felt Jonathan's warning glance on him, he looked back down at the table, clenching and unclenching his left fist at his side.

"God, that's just sick," Elspeth murmured, looking up sadly from the pots. "People like that should be euthanized."

Jonathan hummed in pretend agreement.

Wirt stood up and took his mother's side by the stove. Quietly, he asked, "What does 'euthanized' mean?"

"It means when a doctor... 'puts you to sleep'."

"Oh... like putting down a dog?"

"Exactly."

Wirt sat back down at the table and just marveled at the thought. Nothing sounded better than Jonathan being put down. He'd wanted it more than anything for a long time.

If he told his mother, everything would be okay.

Everything will be okay.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Did you brush your teeth?"

Wirt nodded to his mother, who tucked his blanket over him. Before she left, he hastily took her arm. "Mom?"

She turned back to him and sat back down on the bed. "Hm?"

He looked down, suddenly feeling sick. "Um... you know that, uh... the news story today? With the 13-year-old girl?"

Elspeth's eyebrows knitted together in concern. "Yeah, why?"

Wirt took a shaky breath and began playing with the necklace on his mother's neck. "Wh...what you do...or... what would happen... if... Jonathan... was... d-d...doing things like that?"

Any emotion that was present on Elspeth's face vanished completely, and she stood up and shut off the bedroom light. Wirt could only see her by the light coming in from the hall.

"Wirt, I know you haven't the happiest kid since your father and I split up, but that gives you no reason to say something like that. I don't want you ever saying that to anyone else or we can get into huge trouble."

The door shut quietly, and Wirt trembled.

His gut had told him that his mother's response would disappoint him greatly, but it still hit him hard. And more than that, he was terrified she'd tell Jonathan what he said.

He curled up with his knees to his chest, gripping his blankets tightly, and he cried and cried until he fell asleep.


	12. My Frog

Jason, Wirt, and Sara stared up at the gate leading into the graveyard. It was tall and daunting, and figuring out how to enter proved to be a difficult task.

"Jason, you're the smallest one here, go through the bars and get us in."

Wirt and Sara watched as Jason did as told and slipped inside.

There was a little handle, which opened up the gate and led out into the graveyard. It was old and rusting, and it took lots of force to turn it and open the gate. By the time Jason managed, his hands were red and strained.

The gate swung open, and Wirt and Sara wandered in.

"Woah," Sara said, spinning slowly and taking in the sight of so many graves.

They look at the different tombstones, big and small, and read off several of the names.

" _Maria Guillespi, 1946-2008_ ," Sara read aloud.

 _"Quincy Endicott, 1736-1801_ ," Wirt followed.

" _Aileen Liberto, 1992-2006_." That was Jason, and suddenly he frowned. "She was fourteen years old."

"Does it say how she died?" Sara asked.

"Um..." Jason glossed over it. "Yeah, right here. She got cancer."

The three stood there in depressing silence.

"Death sucks," Jason said.

Sara sighed. "You're telling me."

Wirt pat her back, and Jason pointed at a giant brick wall.

"Let's go over there," Jason suggested.

The three raced toward it. The wall had to be three times taller than them.

Jason used the giant tree next to it to climb up and sit atop it.

"Wirt, give me a boost," Sara ordered. Wirt put out his hands, and Sara set her foot on it as she gripped the top of the wall and used the vines to help her climb to the top of it.

"Wirt, come on!" Sara called to him.

"I don't want to."

"But it's so nice up here!"

"Yeah!" Jason chimed in. "There's a river!"

Wirt sighed and hesitantly pulled himself up the tree next to the wall, scraping his knuckle at one point, and sat himself down next to Jason.

It was nice. Train tracks traced the hill, and down at the bottom of the hill was a river.

There was a small garden of flowers growing on the other side near the train tracks. The flowers sported pink and purple and white, looking soft and friendly.

"That's such a nice little garden," Jason said.

"Yeah..." Sara sucked in a breath of air. "Just us and this garden wall."

Jason looked at her. "It's right next to a graveyard, it's the graveyard wall, you _peasant_."

"Mmm, Garden Wall sounds nicer."

"Graveyard wall."

"Garden."

"Graveyard."

"Garden."

"Graveyard."

Then in unison, Wirt and Sara said, "Garden."

Jason huffed and rolled his eyes.

There was a loud rumble, and it became louder and louder with each coming second. They all watched in silence as the black train sped down the tracks.

"What time is it?" Wirt asked.

Jason glanced down at his watch. "3:47."

With a sigh, Wirt turned to jump off. "I have to go home. I'll see you guys later."

"Bye, Wirt," they both said, though not quite in perfect unison.

The walk home was only seven minutes, and when Wirt walked through the door, he found Greg sitting and crying on the floor.

"What's the matter?" Wirt asked him.

Greg took a deep breath and pointed outside. "He's not moving."

"Who?" _Jonathan?_

"My frog."

"Oh." Wirt didn't know what to say, so he just knelt down next to his three-year-old brother.

Greg sniffled and leaned against Wirt.

"Oh, come on, cheer up. We'll bury him out in the backyard, okay?"

Greg stood up and nodded, taking Wirt's hand.

Wirt led him out to the backyard and looked up at the tree. There was a bird feeder that was never used, hanging there all alone and desolate.

Wirt let go of Greg's hand.

"Hold on a sec."

He climbed up the tree and broke the dirty string with his teeth, sputtering right after.

Greg watched with admiration as his big brother came climbing down the tree. Wirt landed safely, and pulled the top off of the small wooden bird house.

He dumped out the untouched seeds onto the ground and looked up at Greg. "Where's your frog?"

Greg pointed sadly to the corner of the fence.

Sure enough, the frog was limp on its back, not breathing or reacting.

He picked it up gently (though with disgust) and set it into the opened empty bird feeder.

Greg watched sullenly as Wirt set the top back on.

"Get me that shovel," Wirt ordered to him, and Greg grabbed a shovel from the fence.

With his tongue out, the way Wirt did, he lugged the shovel over to him.

Wirt stood, feeling important and not-small for once, as he dug a small hole, just deep enough to bury the frog without the risk of Greg digging it up and traumatizing himself.

"Can I put him in?" Greg asked in a small voice.

"Of course," Wirt answered, setting the makeshift casket into Greg's tiny hands.

Greg kneeled in the dirt and gently set his best friend into the hole.

"Do you want to put the dirt over him?"

Greg nodded. "Can I use the shovel?"

"Of course," Wirt said again, handing it over to him.

Greg clumsily spread the dirt back over the hole and pat it down.

"Here," Wirt said, taking the shovel and setting it against the tree.

Wirt sat down, watching as Greg picked a few stray flowers on the ground.

Wirt couldn't help but smile at his little four-year-old brother, graciously setting the tiny bundle of flowers on the burial.


	13. Furniture Rearrangement

_Dum-dum-dumbum-badum-badum-badumbadum._

The bleachers were uncomfortably cold, freezing almost, as was the evening weather, but Wirt bore with it just because he felt he had to.

He watched his two best friends during their marching band rehearsal, as Jason wore his odd-styled hair up and tossed and twirled his flag, whilst Sara stood atop a podium with a whistle around her neck and a water bottle at her feet. Her yellow polo was tucked into a pair of beige cargo shorts, and, on the field, waving his flag around, Jason wore a pair of spandex shorts and a purple tank top.

The band marched into their sets as several variations and pieces from _Chronicles of Narnia_ filled the football field.

The band sounded decent, good at best, but nowhere near like the recording Sara had shown him.

Sara made a circle with her arms and when they reached her sides, she made two fists, cutting the band off. Then she shouted to the field, "Matt! Can you take over for me real quick? I need to go get the metronome!"

"Yeah," a taller boy with blond hair shouted back, someone Wirt had only met once and been introduced to as the assistant drum major and Sara's _boyfriend_.

Sara stepped off the podium and ascended the bleachers to where Wirt was sitting.

"Hand me that please?" She asked, pointing to the bulky metronome and a cord on top of it on the seat behind Wirt. He handed it to her, watching as she wrapped the cord up to make it easier to hold. "Cold?" She asked.

"No," Wirt replied, shivering and with his teeth chattering

Sara laughed. "Don't worry, we only have one more hour left."

"Another _hour_?"

"Mhm," she replied with a grin. "Also! Before I forget, my uncle Roger is getting married this weekend-"

"To who?" Wirt asked absentmindedly.

"Some girl, I don't know, I never met her. Anyway, he says I can invite a few people to the wedding. There's going to be the reception and ceremony and whatever, and then this whole party afterwards. Wanna go?"

Wirt shrugged, then thought. His mom was working late on Saturday and Sunday, meaning that Jonathan would be home.

Wirt didn't bother to hold back his shiver, because he knew Sarah would pass it off as the cold. "Yeah, I'll ask if I can go."

"Great!" With that, she ran down the bleachers and went back to her duties, plugging the metronome into the amp.

Following a long hour of Sara giving the band three lectures about dragging and dynamics, she concluded the practice with a pep-talk so cheesy it would leave a lactose intolerant person curled in a ball on the floor.

"Our first competition is October 30th! We only have one more week! That's two more rehearsals! I know it seems like a long time but it'll sneak up on us before you know it!"

Sara continued for nearly five whole minutes. When she concluded her speech, Wirt stood up quickly and went down to the track, where Sara was putting on her jacket and grabbing her purse. "Let's go, I'll drive you home."

"Is that really safe?" Wirt jabbed at her.

"Oh, shut up." Sara landed a fist on his arm. He laughed, rubbing the sore spot.

xxxxx

Wirt looked at his and Greg's bedroom, wondering suddenly how many times he'd rearranged his furniture. He'd decided a few months ago that maybe he'd feel a little less stressed if he didn't correlate his bedroom with the abuse, and each time it happened, he made up an entirely different setup to make it feel a little fresher.

Of course, it didn't make anything better. But he could pretend it did.

As of now, his desk was against the wall, parallel to his bedroom door, and his bed was against the right wall, next to the desk, with Greg's bed between them. The foot of the bed faced the closet, and the closet was on the same wall as the door, just more towards the right wall...

He wondered just how many more arrangements he could come up with considering how many times Jonathan...

He set his backpack down next to the desk and pulled out a spiral green notebook. He opened it the most recent page, full of both English and Spanish phrases (very simple ones, as he was only in the beginning of Spanish 1), and had only translated the first sentence (" _La mujer y el hombre comen pan y beben refresco_ ") when his bedroom door opened.

He'd since learned how to listen for the way everyone opened the door. His mother was hasty with it, and Greg always set his hand on the knob lightly, so you'd hear the rattling of the knob before it was turned.

This wasn't either of those, and Wirt's heart sunk.

"What are you doing?" Jonathan asked.

"Homework."

Wirt heard the footsteps stop right behind him, and a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Spanish?"

Wirt nodded slowly. Jonathan was staring over his shoulder at the notebook, and he imagined that Jonathan was a cyborg with lasers coming out of his eyes, capable of completely shredding the notebook.

Jonathan's fingers landed on the notebook lightly, and he slid it away so it landed on the floor.

Just as quickly and unexpectedly, Wirt was near torn out of his chair, and his face was smashed into the desk.

He cried out as his hands were twisted behind his back uncomfortably, and Jonathan loomed over him.

Wirt wept into the desk, as Jonathan proceeded removing his pants without a word.

It ended when Elspeth pulled into the driveway of the house.

"Hurry up and get dressed," Jonathan said monotonously, buttoning up his pants and leaving the room.

Eyes puffy and red, and sticky tears on his face, Wirt looked around.

_Great._

He continued crying even as he moved the desk into the closet, the two beds parallel to eachother on opposing walls, with Greg's being the one whose feet faced the closet, and the dresser in between them.

And almost immediately as he was done, he collapsed onto his bed.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Wirt frowned as he looked at only suit at Goodwill in his size.

"Do you bring gifts to a wedding?"

Stephen laughed. "They usually have an online registry for specific things, but it's pretty expensive and I don't think they'll expect you to get anything. Don't worry about it."

"Oh." Wirt slipped the black coat over his sweater vest, and was pleased with how it fit. He removed it, set it back on the hanger, and held it out. "This one."

"Alright." Stephen shuffled through his wallet, pulling out two five dollar bills. "What time is it at tomorrow?"

"It starts at four, ends at... late." Wirt realized he hadn't actually found out when it ended.

"Okay, I'll pick you up at 3:45. Can you get a ride home from there?"

"I'll ask Sara's dad."

The two approached the line and waited for three other people, all quite old, the youngest looking about a decade older than Stephen.

The years seemed to have taken a bigger toll on Stephen than they had on Elspeth or Jonathan. Creases were more visible on Stephen's face, and if you looked closely, you could see his hair threatening to lighten to grey. It was hardly visible, but it was definitely more visible on him than it was on his mother and stepdad.

"What about food?" Wirt asked.

"What _about_ food?" Stephen repeated.

"Do you take food or do they provide it all?"

"Just go empty handed," Stephen reassured him, patting his back.

Once they paid, it was already dark outside. On the drive home, the only noise was Bon Jovi on the radio with static in the background, but the quiet was light-hearted. Wirt was actually very excited for tomorrow, he fumbled with the suit in the bag and stared out the window. As they passed by Sara's house, he saw her father and a few other relatives he didn't know decorating the inside of the house through the window.

Wirt didn't even notice that Stephen was pulling up to his house until the car stopped completely, and he looked up.

"See you later," Stephen said with a smile.

"Yeah, bye, thanks for the suit." He slid out of the car and began towards his and Greg's room.

He glanced into the living room, and saw Jonathan was napping on the couch, looking sweaty and... just terrible.

"Has the flu," Elspeth said, coming downstairs with a basket of laundry.

Wirt hid his grin from her, and ran upstairs to hang up the suit.

He had nothing to worry about tonight.


	14. Only a Few

**The Woodsman held back a startled gasp when he saw the familiar silhouette sitting upon a tree stump.**

**"Soon," the Beast thought aloud. "He'll be back soon."**

**"The boy?"**

**The Beast hummed. "Not him in particular... the brother."**

**The Woodsman gripped his lantern tighter.**

**"The pilgrim boy has been told too much. He knows better. But his brother..."**

**"But who's to say they'll ever be back?" The Woodsman asked with a swallow.**

**"I know they will..." The Woodsman murmured, swirling a small china cup around his long branchy finger. "I can feel it."**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The house was much stuffier than Wirt had expected, and he uncomfortably tugged on the collar of his dress shirt.

Drunk adults laughed from the couch, and it seemed that the only sober ones were Wirt and Sara. Even Jason had had a couple...

which proved Sara's theory that Jason was an emotional drunk.

"W-Wirt-" Jason sniveled, clutching onto Wirt's arm. "I love you so much, l-l-like, like as a friend, Y-you're just- you're so nice and-" Jason gave a disgusting belch, and Wirt turned away to avoid the smell of liquor, "-and I can't believe we've been friends since-since-since first grade-"

"Come on, Funderburker," Sara's voice arose, and Jason was pulled away.

"Wow, he's out already," Wirt remarked as Jason sat against the wall, breathing hard and still crying.

"Yep, absolutely shitfaced."

That's when Wirt noticed the grotesque scent. "...Sara, did you drink?"

Sara smiled malevolently. "I only had one drink."

"What?"

"Oh, come on, it's a party."

"But you're sixt-"

"I don't care right now, and besides, it was just one drink. I'm a little woozy but I'm fine."

Wirt hummed unsurely, but let her be.

"Do you want to try any?" Sara asked.

"No!"

" _Woah_ , okay, jeez, sorry."

There was an eruption of laughter from the dining room, and several of Sara's cousins and teenagers of family friends were gathered around the table holding white cards, with a box of black cards next to them. On the side of the box were the words " _Cards Against Humanity_."

"Oh!" Sara ran into the dining room to join, and Wirt followed. As Sara collected her hand of cards, Wirt looked over all of them.

They were all either racist, sexual, flat-out absurd, or just strangely innocent. ("Puppies!" "Ladles.")

"Do you want to play, Wirt?" Sara asked.

Wirt set down the cards he picked and shook his head. "No thanks."

Sara sighed sadly. "Come on, do something. The party ends at eleven, you still have a couple hours."

"I'll just..." Wirt nervously rubbed his arm as all the teens stared at him expectantly. "I'll just... sit on the couch."

"No, no, you'll be bored." She thought for a minute, fumbling with her cards.

"I'll find something to do, it's okay."

"Alright, well... be careful. Drunk people are crazy."

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

Wirt left the dining room and navigated his way down the hall upstairs.

The first bedroom door, Sara's father's room, was locked. No surprise.

The door to the guest bedroom was closed, but still unlocked. He opened it, and then closed it quickly. There was a man and a woman in the bed. Doing _it_.

Of all things, that was one he truly didn't want to see.

He was trembling badly now, so he walked away from the door and tried to think of something else. _Puppies! Ladles. Puppies! Ladles. Puppies! Ladles._

The third door was to Josie's bedroom. It hadn't been opened in years. Wirt felt like he'd be an intruder if he opened it up. The untouched doorknob would be tainted by his hand if he opened it. He left it alone.

The last bedroom was Sara's. He didn't have a reason to go in there, so he left it alone.

With a sigh, he went back downstairs.

Sara's relatives and family friends were crowded around the television, hooting and hollering at a football game.

Wirt didn't care for sports, but he sat down with them anyway. They were too engaged in the game to notice or care about his presence.

He didn't even realized he'd dozed off until he looked up, and saw that most of the guests had gone home for the night. The clock on the wall read 11:43. The party had been over for nearly an hour, and he felt guilty for staying overtime. Why hadn't Sara woken him up?

He stood up and began his way toward the dining room to look for her.

"Sara?"

"Wirt!" She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest and leaned up against him. "It's so nice to see you, this party was so great. Everyone got so fucked up, my aunt Lily and uncle Todd got kicked out for screwing in the guest bedroom, it was so funny..."

"Woah, Sara, are you- are you _drunk_?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine- I just..."

The smell of alcohol came off of her so strongly, he almost gagged. "Sara, how many drinks did you have?"

"A... only... a few-" She coughed, and Wirt flinched, in fear she'd throw up.

"Sara-"

"I'm fine, I'm fine- I just- I just need to sit down..."

Wirt took her by the arm and sat with her on the couch. He didn't know what to do with her, whether to leave her here, try to carry her up to her room, tell her dad...

Wirt gazed down at her helplessly.

Her eyes were closed tiredly, and she giggled drunkly. "Jason was right, you are so nice, you're not even- you're not even mad at me." She touched his knee. "Please don't tell my dad, he'll kill me. He'll make me quit band and take away my car... Holy _shit_ , this is horrible."

"I, uh, I won't." It wasn't as if her father wouldn't find out anyway.

She grinned up at him.

Then he started twirling her finger around on his knee, and then his thigh. She snaked her arm around his shoulders, and Wirt found himself incredibly uncomfortable.

He didn't know how to say no to her, he was too petrified to say anything. Just that alone made him think of Jonathan.

He stared into space, feeling sick and woozy.

It felt like a blur, Sara's soft, tender hand became Jonathan's large, rough ones. His mind went back in forth between what Jonathan did, and what Sara was doing right now. He held back tears and bit his tongue, trying to come back to reality, and he stammered, "Sara, d-don't you have a- a boyfriend?"

Sara's hazy eyes looked up. "Well, yeah, but..." Then she got a good look at his face, and with wide eyes, she pulled away from him frantically. "Shit, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I-"

He took a shaky breath and stared at her face, as if trying to make sure it was real. She was staring back at him looking so guilty and red in the face. It almost made her look sober.

"I..." Wirt's stomach churned, his blood ran cold, and abruptly he was on his feet. "I'll be right back," he choked out, bolting towards the bathroom. He could hear Sara crying out his name from behind him.

His hopes to make it to the bathroom on time were in vane, and he threw up on the floor just near the toilet. It was a disgusting goopy pile, and some of it had even gotten on his suit. He cursed to himself and peeled off his vomit-covered button-up and jacket. The smell was horrid, and he cringed, already kneeling down and using nearly an entire roll of toilet paper to clean it up. He was scrubbing away the smell when Sara opened the door.

She stopped in her tracks. "Wirt..."

"I know, I'm sorry, I'm almost done cleaning it up, I promise."

"No." Sara shook her head and pointed to Wirt's body. "What happened to you?"

Wirt looked down, and his eyes widened.

It'd completely slipped his mind that he was bruised on his arms and back and sides, and there was even what looked like a bite mark on his shoulder.

His face became pale, and he looked up at Sara. "No, it's, it's nothing, it's just-"

"No, Wirt, tell me what happened, why do you look like that?"

Wirt shook his head frantically and scrambled to get up and wrap his arms around himself. "No, no, I can't, I-"

"Wait a minute, I need to get you a shirt." She ran off, leaving Wirt to lean against the wall in a cold sweat.

She returned with a baggy brown long-sleeved sweatshirt and handed it to him. He was quick to pull it on, and he sat back down against the wall and held his knees to his chest.

"Wirt," Sara said softly, sitting next to him. He trembled at her eyes on him. "Why are there bruises all over you?"

He shook his head, indicating he didn't want to answer.

Sara looked down, then looked back up at him. "Was it someone from school?"

Wirt shook his head.

"Your mom?"

He shook it again.

"Your dad?"

 _Shake shake_. His stomach seized, he knew whom she'd inquire next.

"Your stepdad?"

He'd expected her to say it, but it still caught him off guard. He flinched and looked at the floor.

Sara picked up on it, and she asked, "What did he do, Wirt?"

Wirt covered his face. "I can't tell you."

"But you need to."

Wirt looked at the tiled floor through his fingers and took a shaky breath. "He... h-h-he... does things..."

"What things?" Sara pushed, but judging by the look on her face, she knew very well what he meant.

"It's bad, it's disgusting, I can't..."

Sara leaned close to him, and said, "Wirt, please talk to me. You can't hide anything now. Please, just please tell me what he did."

Wirt struggled to get his voice out. "H-he- I..." He gulped and covered his face. "The same things as your aunt and uncle were doing in the guest bedroom-" his voice cracked- "except I don't want to do it." He began to sob hysterically. "I hate when he does it, but he does it all the time. He's done it probably hundreds of times- I hate it so much, I hate it so much, Sara, but it doesn't stop, _it never stops_..."

Sara looked at him, looking both startled and worried.

"Wirt, you need to tell-"

"No!" He looked up, face red. He got up onto his knees to loom above her. "I can't, you know I can't- And you can't tell either! Or he'll..." Wirt sucked up a deep breath. "I'll never talk to you again, I'll hate you forever."

"Wirt, you know I can't promise th-"

"I don't care, you have to." He gripped her shoulders, and she flinched. " _Please_."

She looked reluctant, but she nodded gravely. "Fine."

He exhaled, and sat back against the wall. "Can I go home?"

Sara bit her lip. "Why would you want to go back there?"

"I mean, I _don't_ but..."

Sara sighed and stood up. "Okay."

Wirt looked at her solemnly and stood up as well.

There was silence as Sara grabbed her keys, her purse, and her sweater. Wirt just followed her out the door to her car, not bothering to question why she would possibly drive while she was drunk.

The drive back was silent, no music, no words to be spoken.

Sara pulled up to the curb next to Wirt's house. As Wirt was opening to the door to leave, he was pulled right back.

Sara gave him a tight embrace. "Please stay safe."

Wirt nodded slowly, hugging her back.

It meant the world to him; not only did somebody believe him, but somebody cared.

The hug lasted several minutes, before Sara reluctantly let him go.

He felt so warm, even as he walked into the house and shut the door.

When he walked into his bedroom, Greg was lying on his bed, curled up under the covers and sleeping like a disheveled little baby, hair just a little undone, his pajamas wrinkled. He looked so adorable. Wirt took a small strand of Greg's hair and spun it around his finger. He couldn't help but laugh as Greg grunted and swatted his hand away in his sleep.

He felt so unbelievably warm and content, he felt almost high off of Sara's affection.

He shut off the light, not even bothering to change his suit pants, and lay down in his own bed.

He fell asleep with a tiny smile.


	15. My Fallen Scarlett Ibis

The bus hadn't even arrived, and Sara was already putting her hair up into a messy bun and pulling her gloves onto her hands.

"Do I look fine?" She asked, turning to Wirt. Jason had been with them too, but he'd since gone astray to play Uno with the saxophone section.

"Yeah."

Sara was wearing long block socks, black shorts, a black T-shirt, and a recognizable pair of black marching shoes. On the tongue, it said, 'Drillmasters.'

"When does the bus get here?"

Sara looked down at her watch. "About two minu-" She turned her attention away from Wirt and began yelling toward all the band kids, and they all began grabbing their instruments, uniform bags, and shako cases.

"Hey, I'll see you later," Sara said to him, giving him a tight hug. "And stay safe, okay?"

Whenever she told him this, he didn't know how to respond, he was almost embarrassed with the generosity. He awkwardly tossed back, "I'll try, but you guys are abandoning me, I don't think I'm going to make it through the day now." He grinned for good measure.

Sara smiled and shook her head. "Come on, we'll be back Monday. And seriously, be safe, please."

"Yeah, okay, I'll try. Have fun. And good luck."

Sara adjusted her gloves and socks and nodded. "Thanks." Then she lowered her voice. "They'll need it."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Greg was humming to himself and removing the hangers from the clothes he'd just taken down from his closet when the bedroom door opened. He gasped and turned, watching as Wirt tossed his backpack aside and looked down at his arrangement on his bed. "Greg, what're you doing?"

"I'm setting my clothes out for tomorrow, it's for something very important."

Wirt raised his brow at a white dress shirt and green overalls. "What for, exactly?"

Greg never failed to physically display what he was feeling, and he jumped up with his arms outstretched with glee. "I'm going to work tomorrow!"

"Work?"

"Yep! Mrs. Daniels says she needs help in her garden, and I'm the perfect man for the job!"

Greg was so excited, Wirt didn't want to break it to him that the only reason Mrs. Daniels had chosen was because he was right next door, and also he didn't expect her to pay him.

He turned away from Greg, but almost immediately, Greg had found something else to enthuse over. "Wirt!"

"What?"

"Look!"

Wirt sighed and did so. Upon a high shelf, above the pole upon which Greg's clothes were hung, was a box with the simple word 'Sorry!' printed on the lid.

"Come on, Wirt, play with me!"

" _Hmmmgh_ , I don't really want to right now."

Greg sighed disappointedly and began begging. "Come on, Wirt, please!"

Wirt was about to snap at his little half-brother when he saw the sad sparkle in his eyes.

And next thing he knew, he was sitting criss-crossed on the floor in front of a game board with yellow and blue pieces.

It had been when Greg won his first game and was sending Wirt back to start that Greg asked the question.

"Wirt, do you love me?"

Wirt was nearly startled, and his game piece had only traveled half of its given spaces when he looked up. "What- why do you ask?"

"Do you?"

"Greg, of course I do."

Greg gave him a small smile and pointed to the board, forcing Wirt to keep going until his piece had traveled its ten spaces.

"Dad says you don't." Greg picked up a card, and pulled another game piece out of the home spot. "And sometimes it doesn't seem like you do."

Wirt was almost too scared to ask why, because he knew what the answer would be- that sometimes he was cruel to Greg. It reminded him of the narrator from that short story he'd read in English last year called 'The Scarlett Ibis,' about the boy who'd forced his crippled little brother to learn to walk and talk because he was embarrassed of him. And then at the very end, he left him to die.

"I-I'm sorry, I promise I'll be nicer," Wirt murmured.

"It's okay, lots of big brothers and sisters are like that, that's what Miss Collins said." Greg pointed at the board. "It's your turn."

Wirt took a card, and moved his piece backwards four spaces.

Greg continued. "He told me it's best to stay away from you because everything I do makes you mad."

"That's not true, Greg, you're my brother, and just because you annoy me sometimes doesn't mean I don't love or care about you."

"He got mad at me for dropping and breaking a cup yesterday, and yelled and said that I was lucky you weren't home, that you would've done worse. And he said you wouldn't care if you found out that he-"

Greg cut himself short, and frantically took a card. " _Yesss_ , I can move one of my pieces into the safe zone now."

Wirt wouldn't allow his brother to change the subject, and he took a quiet breath. "That he what?"

Greg began spinning his game piece on its edge, staring down at the board. There was a small tap as a tear fell up the board, staining the small spot. He wiped it away quickly. "It's your turn now, Wirt, get a card."

" _Greg_."

Greg gave up trying then. "H-he-" With his small, chubby fist, he wiped his teary eyes. "...He made me do gross things with him."

Wirt shook his head, slowly at first, and then quickly as panic and that sickly feeling that everything was falling apart set in. "Ffff-damn it, shit, _no no no no_ -" He took a deep breath. "When?"

Greg's voice was wobbly. "When what?"

"When did it happen?"

Greg paused, and said carefully, "When you were at that party with Sara."

He remembered that night quickly, and he internally kicked himself for being too love-drunk to notice that Greg was a thumb-sucker.

He should have noticed that that was the only night he'd ever seen Greg not sucking his thumb.

His thumb hadn't been in his mouth because he didn't want to relive what else had been there-

_Gross thought, gross thought._

Wirt stood up, hitting himself in the head and pacing the room. He'd never felt so furious in his life.

Greg's tiny voice arose from the floor. "Wirt?"

Wirt looked down at his little brother, who looked even more scared of him than of talking about what Jonathan had done.

He reached down and wrapped his arms around him in the tightest hug he could muster.

"It'll be okay," he muttered in Greg's ear. "It'll be okay."

"Gregory!"

A voice from downstairs came closer to the door. Wirt had enough time to set Greg down and wipe his and Greg's tears before their mother opened the door.

"Greg, Cindy's mom is downstairs, she's here to pick you up for dinner."

Greg gasped, and as if the whole ordeal between him and Wirt had never happened, he happily began pulling on his shoes.

Greg and Elspeth left the room, leaving Wirt alone to think, just think.

He didn't want to ever see the day when that little boy was no longer enthusiastic-

When he was too scared to be alive, when that little light went out. Greg was somebody special, who believed there was good in everybody and that everybody deserved to be treated nicely. He didn't want to see Greg lose it. He wouldn't let Jonathan take that way.

They needed to get out, _fast_.

He knew there was only one way to do it. The way he'd considered before was much out of the question; he knew if he told, Greg would be miserable in a foster home; or, if Jonathan kept his promise, Greg would be traumatized- even more than he already was -over watching his own father kill the rest of his family.

The other way of escape was awful, but it was his only other choice. It would hurt others, he knew it, it would be like a bomb had been dropped, and the shrapnel would strike everyone he loved. His mother, his father...

_Sara._

His mother hadn't listened, but Sara had.

He knew he'd hurt Sara with what he was going to do.

Leaving a note behind wasn't good enough for her, she deserved more than that.

He looked at the tape player on the desk that he'd taken out from the closet just a few days ago, and he decided this would be the second best thing.

He took out his clarinet, his memopad of sappy poetry he'd either written or copied, and popped in a blank tape...

And he said goodbye.

_Bad things happen on Halloween._


	16. Into the Unknown

Wirt let the black Sharpie slip out from between his fingers and stared at the tape in his hands.

 _ **For Sara**_ it read.

He set it back into the tape player and rewinded it. He was so tense and jittery he couldn't stop rewinding, listening, rewinding, listening, rewinding, and then listening again.

The more he thought about what he was doing, the more he teared up and considered backing down. He didn't want to leave Sara. Maybe, if he convinced his brother to tell his teacher or something, they'd have an easy way out. He assumed elementary teachers took those allegations super seriously...

No, he couldn't throw Greg under the bus like that.

He began pacing the room, glancing at the tape unsurely before ripping it out of the player. He tore the black film tape out of the cartridge, and threw it against the wall in a tangled heap.

This was a terrible idea, he couldn't do it. Greg would never want this, and in the off-chance that the plan didn't work, Greg would be scared of him for the rest of his life.

He heard the front door open downstairs, and Jonathan walk in. "I'm home!" Jonathan called out.

Wirt felt his insides shrivel at the sound of his voice.

No, he had to.

He looked up at the clock on the wall. It was eight. Greg would be nearly finished at Mrs. Daniels's house by now.

He took a deep breath, smiled with determination, and picked up the crumpled tape on the floor. With a pencil, he wound the tape back into the cartridge and set it down onto the desk.

From boxes he found in the attic and hallway closet, he got ahold a navy blue cape and a stiff red elf hat. He cut the white fluff from the top and rims of the hat.

He admired himself in his makeshift... gnome costume...? in the bathroom mirror.

"Yes."

He triumphantly exited the house and gripped the tape in his hand.

"Into the Unknown."

Tonight, Sara's boyfriend was conducting the marching band, and Wirt watched with a solemn smile as Sara was prancing around in the giant bee suit. Who'd ever think that a bee would be a good mascot for a high school?

"Goodbye, thank you, old lady Daniels!"

"Goodbye, Gregory- and don't call me 'old lady'!"

"Yes, sir, young man!"

Wirt turned to him and smirked. "That's not what she means, Greg."

"Oh! There you are, big brother!"

"Greg, what are you wearing?"

Greg looked up, gasping as the kettle on his head nearly slipped off. "It's my elephant costume. bbwwwh, bpphhw!- See my trunk?"

Wirt hummed. "Oh. Where'd you get the tea pot?"

"Mrs. Daniels. She said it'd make for a perfect elephant trunk!"

"...Huh." He turned back towards the football field and looked at the tape in his hand.

"Is that bee named Sara?"

"What?" Wirt looked up.

"Your tape says, 'For Sara.' Are you going to give it to Sara the Bee?"

Wirt's grip on the tape tightened. "No..." He blinked in such a way, it looked as though he were mentally preparing himself for the worst. "You are."

"Woah, I have another job?"

Wirt smiled. "Yes, a very important job."

"More important than the job I had at Mrs. Daniels's?"

"Yes, _much_ more important."

" _Wow_." Greg breathed enchantedly. "What do you need me to do, Brother o' mine? I won't let you down."

"Look." He pointed toward the football field. "When you see everyone leaving, I want you to follow that bee-"

"The Sara one?"

"Yes, the Sara one- and she'll go inside of that shed over there. Her jacket is hanging up on the hook, I want you to put this tape in it. Do you know where the graveyard is?"

"Mhm! I found a frog there once, I named him Alexander-"

"-I want you to meet me there, okay?"

Greg nodded. "Okey dokey!" He raised his arms and clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly, in a _gimme-gimme_ motion.

"Good." Wirt handed him the tape, and watched his little brother toddle over to the shack.

He sighed and began on his way towards the graveyard, wondering how long they might have to wait before the next train flew by.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sure enough, a varsity jacket was hung up on a little hook, and Sara the Giant Bee had gone into the shack to change.

Greg's tongue was between his lips in determination, and he pulled open the jacket's pocket.

"Hey!"

He gasped and turned around.

A much bigger boy was approaching toward him looking awfully intimidating.

Greg's throat seized, and he watched as a girl grabbed the big boy's arm and stopped him. "Jimmy, come on," she said. "He's just a little kid."

The big boy pulled away from her and pointed to the tape in Greg's hand. "What's that?"

"I-I-It's a-a a tape-"

The boy squinted at it. "'For Sara'? What do you want with Sara?"

"I-I-I don't- I don't wa- my brother told me to give it to her."

The boy bent down, so he hovered just above Greg's face. "Who's your brother, kid?"

"H-h-he-"

"Jimmy?"

Greg turned to another voice, and who once was a bee was now a dark-colored girl wearing a clown costume.

Greg quickly shoved the tape into her jacket pocket. " _Mybrothertoldmetogiveyouthisbye!_ "

He sped off, panting and terrified of the bigger boy. He envisioned that if he hadn't started running, he'd now have a bloody nose and a missing tooth.

He found Wirt standing at a far wall at the end of the graveyard, staring upward at nothing. As he approached him, Wirt looked down at him.

"Okay, let's go," Wirt said. "We're going home."

Puzzled, Greg watched as Wirt climbed up a tree and adjusted himself up onto the wall.

"Wirt, the house is that way."

"That's not home," Wirt shot back.

Greg frowned and followed suit of his brother, climbing up and jumping off, landing painfully on his feet. " _Oof_."

When he looked up, Wirt was staring off into the distance beyond the tracks.

"Wirt?"

" _Shush_."

Then, Greg heard the rumbling. It was becoming subtly louder and closer, and he felt his heart sink as Wirt gripped his arm and pulled him onto the tracks along with him.

"Wirt, what are you doing?"

"Quiet, it'll be okay."

The lights became visible, just slightly, and Greg tried to pull his arm away, but to no avail.

"Wirt, let go!"

Wirt was silent, watching a train in the distance become bigger.

"Wirt!"

When Greg realized it was no use to try to force his brother to snap out of it, he tore away from him, and stepped back a few feet before running towards Wirt.

The light was almost blinding by the time Greg had rammed into Wirt. Wirt instinctively clutched onto Greg's arm, pulling Greg down with him as his foot's grip on the damp grass gave out and they went tumbling down the hill.

The water of the river had been so cold, a small layer of ice had formed upon the surface. It felt as though they had fallen through glass, and the water was so freezing cold, it knocked the breath out of them.

Wirt's arms were around Greg, and Greg tried to squirm and swim upward, but he wouldn't budge. His lungs could barely stand holding his breath any longer, but he knew he must try his absolute hardest to keep it in.

Wirt, however, didn't try at all, and he breathed in, hacking on the water and making so many bubbles, Greg could barely see. Suddenly, there were no more bubbles, and the grip on Greg loosened. He thrashed desperately to rise up to the top and emerge from the freezing river.

He coughed uncontrollably as he pulled himself up, he was shaking so much and he felt more dizzy than the time he'd been been spun on the merry-go-round at the playground for five straight minutes.

He trudged himself over the wall, barely managing to climb back over.

A large group of three older boys and one girl in no costumes, who seemed just a bit older than Wirt, were laughing and pushing eachother around, when suddenly they looked at Greg and stopped.

"Hey, man, are you okay?" asked one of them to Greg.

"M-m-my brother!" He tried to keep his speech together but he was shivering too hard. "H-h-h-he's in th-th-the rrrr-river a-a-and h-h... he's drowning, I think he's drowning."

The teenagers all began rushing around and climbing over the wall. The girl took off her hoodie and set it over Greg. She was careful as she climbed over the wall with him in her arms.

The girl was holding him tightly, and he looked over to the boys. One of them, a boy with black hair who seemed a little fatter than the others, took off his shirt and dove into the river. The first time he emerged was to curse over how cold the water was. But the second time, an unconscious Wirt was on his back, dripping wet and his lips blue. He dropped him down onto the grass. There was a tense silence before Wirt began coughing up water, but he didn't stay awake. His breathing was unsteady.

"Alan, call an ambulance or something! Hurry up!"

A tan boy with a thick Spanish accent asked him, "Hey, what is your parent's phone number?"

"3-3-6..." Greg could barely manage to say the rest of it, he felt so dizzy and tired. "3-0-8-7..." He barely slipped out the final number seven before everything went black.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**There are trees everywhere. I'm not drenched in water anymore, but snowflakes are falling from the sky.**

**The first noise I hear is Wirt laughing.**

**He is laughing and laughing and laughing, and I suddenly want to get away from him.**

**"Oh my gosh!" He cries. "It's the same, it hasn't changed a single bit!" He began touching the trees and looking around in a giddy daze. "I haven't been here in so long!"**

**He whips around to look at me, and I back up. "Do you see this?"**

**I look around, but there are only trees- snowflakes and lots and lots of trees. "It's a forest."**

**Then, Wirt starts laughing again. "Then I'm not crazy! I'm not sick! It's real, it's real, Greg!"**

**Wirt's never been this happy, it's so scary to me, like he's not even himself.**

**Behind me, I hear something whir past, and I turn to look. There's nothing, only lots and lots of trees.**

**"Greg, let's go! I want to show you the tavern, you'll like it there! Everyone there is so nice!"**

**He takes my hand and leads me past the trees until I see a light.**

**A small cottage comes into a view, and Wirt pulls me along.**

**"Sit down, I'll ask for something to eat." He sounds so breathless when he talks. "You're hungry, right? Let's see-"**

**I sit down and watch my brother. Why is he acting like this? Where are we?**

**Is he crazy?**

**A bluebird lands atop a small flower vase in the center of the table.**

**"Are you his brother?" She asks in a gentle, high-pitched voice.**

**I glance back and forth between the bluebird and my brother, who's setting plates of food on his arm.**

**I nod to the bluebird, and she frowns and shakes her little birdy head.**

**"You're not safe here, you both need to go home."**

**"Why?"**

**"Because of the Beast, he wants to have his way with you. Your brother knows, tell him he can't come back here."**

**I consider walking up to ask Wirt who the Beast is, but I decide not to.**

**"What's your name?" I ask.**

**"My name's Beatrice. But that won't matter, as long as you never come back here." She flutters close to my face and warns in a whisper, "Please don't."**

**I look down out the window, and then at Wirt.**

**I wonder if it's okay to tell her how we got here.**


	17. Camel Meal Tea

Wirt first woke up to the sound of his mother sniffling. Through his hazy vision, he could make out his mother crying and biting on her thumb nail.

"Wirt?" She cried out.

He looked up at the beeping monitor above him.

"Wirt," she repeated, though a little more assertive this time. She took his hand and stroked the back of it. "Please tell me it's not true."

"What's not true?"

His mother lowered her voice to a whisper. "Greg says you tried to kill yourself."

Wirt shrunk down in shame and pulled his hand away from her, just so he'd have a free hand to stare at so he wouldn't have to look at her.

"Well?"

"The fact that-" That voice startled Wirt, he hadn't even noticed that Jonathan was in the room, "-not only did you try to do something reckless like that, but you tried to drag your brother into it is _absolutely_ -"

"Jon, not now," Elspeth warned. He began running her fingers through Wirt's hair. "Sweetheart, please tell me why you tried to do it."

Wirt wanted to reach right up and hit her, right the face. He had already told her, four years ago.

She just hadn't believed him.

He turned away from her and looked at Greg, who was sitting up and coloring in an activity book. Wirt could hear his mother crying again, but frankly, he couldn't care less right now.

The door of the room opened, and a friendly-looking woman with a darker complexion came in, a bright smile appearing on her face when he saw Wirt awake. "Oh, you've woken up!"

Wirt couldn't muster a smile back at her, though he tried.

"You haven't met me, but my name is Dr. Hamilton, I'm your nurse. You can call me Roxanne."

Wirt didn't have time to respond before his mother stood and spoke up. "When can they go home?"

The nurse tapped her clipboard. "Gregory is free to go home now. As for Walter, we took x-rays and he has no fractures, luckily, and his body temperature is stabilizing. For now, we just want to watch for any signs of pneumonia, and if we don't see any by tomorrow morning, he'll be free to go by noon."

"Oh good, hear that, sweetie? You can go home."

Wirt rolled his eyes.

"Is there anything I can get you?" Roxanne asked him, and he shook his head. "Okay, I'll come check on you later."

When she exited, Elspeth looked at the clock. 10:42.

"I need to go, sweetie, it's late. Will you be fine by yourself?"

Wirt nodded.

"Are you sure? I can leave Jon here."

Wirt shook his head frantically. "I'm fine on my own."

Elspeth paused before nodding, and she stood up to grab her purse. "I'll pick you up tomorrow at noon. I love you."

"Love you too."

She gave him a tight hug and a kiss on his cold cheek. "Greg? Are you ready to go?"

Ever since Greg had heard he could leave, he'd already been up and putting on his shoes and jacket.

"In a second." He tied his shoes (with much struggle) and stood up, taking his mother's hand.

"See ya tomorrow, Wirt!"

It hurt his heart. He didn't want Greg going home with Jonathan, he was so scared something would happen again when he couldn't be there.

It must have been quite clear, because Jonathan said to Elspeth, "I'll be down in a minute, I need to use the bathroom."

Once it was only them two, Jonathan approached Wirt's bed and gripped his hair tightly. Wirt held back a yelp, hissing instead.

In a low whisper, Jonathan asked, "Do you know what happens when air gets into an IV?"

Wirt nodded, lips pressed together.

"Because if you tell them anything, I'll make sure that's what happens to you."

Wirt gulped, holding back tears. He couldn't help but cry out as his head was pulled up and slammed right back into the pillow, Jonathan's tight grip still on his hair.

"Do you hear me?"

Wirt felt as though he'd just broken when he heard himself say "Yes, sir." His voice had cracked.

Jonathan let go, and left without another word.

Once his footsteps were no longer audible, Wirt covered his face and cried.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

" _I'm gonna sit right down and write myself a letter... make believe it came from you, oooh..._ "

Greg held onto the cart and glanced at all the food on the shelves.

"Wirt likes that weird smelly tea, the camel one."

" _Chamomile_ , Greg."

"Yeah, _camel meal_."

Elspeth laughed and tossed a box of tea bags into the basket.

"Greg, can you go get me a box of green jasm-"

The collision between two shopping carts was clamorous and disruptive. Other shoppers looked up, either startled or annoyed.

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry-" Elspeth looked up, and her features brightened. "Oh, Jeffrey, hi!"

"Hey, Elspeth, nice to see you."

They shook hands, and Greg looked up to the girl he'd seen last night, who was now wearing a floral tank top and jeans instead of a clown costume. "Hey, you're Sara the Bee!"

Sara smiled and kneeled down to his size. "Oh, you're Greg, right? Oh, I've never had the chance to properly meet you."

"Me either, but Wirt talks about you a lot, he says you're pretty."

Sara pulled back and blushed. "Oh."

Greg giggled.

Then, Sara perked up as if she'd just remembered something. "Ms. Harton, Wirt has a tape player, right?"

"He does indeed."

"Is it, uh, is it okay if I stop by your house to pick it up? I just want to borrow it quickly-"

"Oh, yeah, of course! I'm sure Wirt will be fine with it, I won't be home for a while, but my husband will, I still have to pick Wirt up from the hospital, come back here to get milk, and then we're going home.

"Wait, hospital?" Sara asked frantically. "Why's he in the hospital?"

Elspeth looked sad all of a sudden. "He... he had an, uh, an accident-"

"Oh man, is he okay?" Jeffrey asked. Sara glanced between them, horrified of the thought of what possibly could have happened.

"Yeah, he's alright, he'll be coming home today and he just needs some time to... recover."

Sara watched as her father gave Wirt's mother his condolences, and they said their goodbyes.

It took Sara and her father five minutes to scan their items, the same amount of time to pay and bag their things , and four minutes to drive home.

Sara helped her father carry groceries into the kitchen before grabbing her jacket from the front door. "Dad, I'll be right back," she called out. She didn't even wait for an answer, and was out in the door in a flash.

Wirt's front door had never seemed so tall. It was almost threatening, just standing there. She was shaking as he pushed the doorbell. She'd never been so intimidated to see Jonathan. As a kid, he seemed like such a nice person. Now knowing what she knew now, she felt sick.

The door opened, and there he was. "Oh, you're Sara, right?" He asked.

It discomforted her that he recognized her, but she smiled and nodded anyway. "Yeah, uh, I just need to borrow something of Wirt's really quick-"

"Yeah, sure, go ahead, you know where his room is, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah, it'll be quick."

She hesitated to enter the house, feeling numb and stressed to be in the same house as him with nobody else around. She couldn't help but imagine the things he'd done to Wirt, and it made her heart hurt.

She made her way in and darted up the stairs. She held her breath, making sure Jonathan hadn't followed her up. He hadn't.

In Wirt's and Greg's bedroom, the tape player was on the desk, and she picked it up, holding it carefully so it wouldn't fall. She made her way back down, wanting to leave immediately before anything could possibly situate.

"Thank you," she called out as she exited the door and shut it. She sighed in relief, wondering how Wirt could do that every second of his life.

She lugged the thing home, and was quick to get it upstairs to her bedroom.

The tape was in her pocket, and she pushed it into the slot. It chugged quietly before starting.

In traditional Wirt fashion, old swing music started up, before he came in on the clarinet. She couldn't help but cringe and smile, it was so embarassing but so... Wirt.

The music came to a halt, and Wirt's voice came out, crackly over the terrible mic of his tape player. " _Hi, Sara, it's me. I decided to make this rather than leave you a suicide note_ -"

That sentence alone was enough to claw at Sara's heart.

" _I know I shouldn't be doing this, I know I promised you that I'd- that I'd be safe, but... I can only do that for so long._ "

Sara didn't notice she'd began crying until a tear fell on her hand, and she wiped the tears away.

She eventually gave up and cried silently into her hands as she listened to Wirt painstakingly telling her how much the abuse was taking a toll on him, and details like when it first happened, the time he tried to tell his mom, and what led to him having to resort to this.

The abuse he was suffering was worse than she'd expected. It hadn't really dawned on her how long it'd been going on, or how often it happened.

The tape ended with one last clarinet piece.

She felt paralyzed for a second, and moved only to take off her jacket.

What had happened wasn't an accident. Wirt had tried to kill himself.

She wasn't sure if she'd really wanted to hear that, or what she'd even expected to hear for that matter.

She wiped her teary-eyed face on her jacket before setting it down.

With cold blood, she shut off the tape player and slowly trudged downstairs, her breathing shaky.

Her dad stood in front of the pantry, putting away the groceries, and humming some old tune.

"Dad?" Sara called out to him, and he turned to look at her.

"Yeah, bumblebee?"

Sara looked down at the counter and sat down on one of the stools.

With what very little confidence she could muster, she took a breath and said,

"...I need to tell you something."


	18. She Said Nothing

It'd been one in the afternoon when Wirt arrived home. Despite his mother's insistence to hug him and have a talk with him, he ignored her and went straight to his room, where he shut the door and flopped down onto his bed.

He'd tried, _really tried_ to make things better, but now not only was he back in the Hellhouse, now nobody would look at him the same.

Maybe, he decided, there was a bright side to it. If his mother spent a majority of her time coddling him, Jonathan most likely wouldn't have the chance to strike. And maybe, just maybe, that meant Jonathan would realize that he was standing on thin ice. Wirt thought Jonathan might see that he was nearly on the brink of spilling, whether it be the beans or his own insanity.

Either way, Jonathan should believe he was in danger.

But of course, if that predatory glare was streered away from him, it would only be cast upon the next option. Which was...

_Greg._

Wirt's thoughts were cut off by a soft knock on his bedroom door, and when he looked at the clock, it was nearly five in the evening. He blinked in confusion, taking a moment to realize he'd fallen asleep.

"Wirt?"

Alarmed at the voice, Wirt sat up with wide eyes and tried to wipe the tire out of them. "Oh, uh, h-hi, wh-what are you doing here?"

Wearing her usual jacket and jeans, Sara motioned to the tape-player in her hands. "Where do you want me to put this?"

"Just, uh, put it on the desk, thanks."

Once Sara turned around, Wirt began smoothing down his notoriously awful bedhead. He sat with his back against the headboard and pulled his knees up to his chest.

Somberly, Sara turned, approached Wirt's bed, and sat down. Then, much to Wirt's surprise, she wrapped her arms around him in a suffocating yet loving hug.

"I'm sorry," she said, voice muffled in Wirt's shoulder.

He looked down at her. "Sorry for what?"

But Sara only shook her head and kept herself wrapped around him. "I'm just sorry."

Wirt was still puzzled, but he didn't prod any further, he just let her stay there.

Sara didn't have much more time in Wirt's warmth, she knew soon enough, the bomb would drop, and he was soon to hate her.

There came another knock, though this time it was rougher, and it came from downstairs.

Sara almost didn't allow Wirt to get up, he had to wretch his way out of her grip, repeatedly saying her name in confusion and slight begging. "Sara, please stop."

He exited his bedroom, Sara following him as he descended the stairs and, while standing on the bottom step, looked to the front door, where his mother was standing and speaking to two police officers. In the living room, Greg had since ditched his crayons and coloring book to look up at the officers in bewildered awe.

Suddenly, they both came storming in, and looking into the kitchen, where Jonathan was drying the dishes.

"Jonathan Harton?" One of the police officers, a dark-skinned woman, said. Jonathan looked at them with clear question in his eyes.

"Yeah?"

Without another word, he was forced to drop the towel he'd been holding while his hands were wretched behind him.

Wirt felt his chest tighten as he watched on. He walked backwards up a few stairs.

His blood pulsed in his ears, and he couldn't register what the cops were saying, except for four words. "-right to remain silent-"

His own breathing was cut off by the glare Jonathan gave him over his shoulder, a glare that looked like a serial killer's.

Jonathan was brought outside with two firm hands holding him securely, so he couldn't get away. Once they reached the lawn, Jonathan began struggling and trying to pull his arms out of the cuffs.

"You'll never convict!" Jonathan shouted. "You have no proof!"

Wirt heard his mother crying while watching her _dear sweet husband_ being dragged away. Greg hopped off the couch and toddled over to hold onto their mother's pant leg.

"Wirt..."

Wirt turned and looked at Sara, feeling a sudden resentment toward that guilty face.

He heard the doors of the cop car slam, and the engine roar as it sped off.

His blood boiled at the thought of Sara breaking her promise, but when his mom gave him a look that looked as though she could raise all hell, he didn't want Sara to leave.

"Sara?" Wirt's mother managed calmly. "Can you go home right now? I need to talk to my _son_."

Sara glanced between them before rushing out, whispering an apology to Wirt as she passed him.

Once the door shut, Wirt's mom opened her mouth as if to say something, but she only looked down and covered her face. Greg was staring at him, looking terrified for his brother's fate.

Then, their mother snapped a finger in Wirt's direction. "Go to your room, please."

"Mom-"

"No, stop, now, just go, I know if I look at you, I'm going to do something I'll regret."

That sentence horrified him, and he quickly scrambled up the stairs into his room and shut the door.

He stared at it for a long time, not knowing whether to be scared, relieved, angry...

The race of emotions clutched his heart, and he sniffled and swallowed back the threatening onslaught of tears. With that, he opened up his closet and sat in one of its dark corners.

xxxxxxxxx

The following hour, there was yet another knock on the door, and Wirt sighed, wondering what else could possibly go wrong.

He heard the door open, and a soft female voice spoke.

Curious, he opened the closet and stepped out slowly. He opened the door, left his bedroom, and tip-toed down the stairs.

Standing behind the wall at the bottom of the staircase, he could see a woman in perhaps her late fourties or early fifties. She held a clipboard in her arm and was dressed in a knee-lengthed plaid skirt and a black blazer. She was white, with wavy, bleach-blonde hair.

She caught sight of him immediately, and gave him a gentle smile. "You must be Wirt."

He nodded slowly, stopping when his mother turned and looked at him.

"My name's Olivia," the woman greeted. "I'm a social worker."

"...hi."

"Wirt, Mrs. Harton, can you please sit down?"

Wirt's mother nodded and led Olivia to the table, where Greg had already been sitting and eating a bowl of ice cream. When their mother took the bowl from him, he pouted. "Ah, beans."

"For tonight, I'm just going to go over a few essentials." She turned one of the pages on the clipboard. "Mrs. Harton, if your husband stays in the residence, then both your kids will not be able to stay here until after the trial."

"Wait, are you serious, _both_ of them?"

Olivia nodded. "That's how it goes."

Wirt's mother looked up at both her children. "But... he's not even allowed to see one of them? Greg didn't accuse him of anything."

Greg looked up at the mention of his name, and then at Wirt. Wirt didn't look back at him.

"Yes, I know, however, we don't want to risk any incident occuring while he's in the home."

"Nothing's going to happen," Elspeth raised her hands for emphasis. "Nothing's _ever happened_."

With a sigh, Wirt exasperatingly butted in. "If you believe in him that much, why don't I just stay at Dad's house?"

His mother looked at him and motioned to Greg, who'd been laying his head on the table to drown out his mother's yelling. "Well, what about your brother?"

"He could stay with us, Dad wouldn't mind."

"Wirt, that's ridiculous, I'm not going to-"

"Where does your father live, Wirt?" Olivia asked.

Wirt gave her the address, and she scribbled it down. "Do you have his phone number?"

He nodded and stated the ten digit number. "That's his cellphone number, he's probably still at work right now."

"Wirt," Greg said, looking up, "are we gonna live with your dad?"

Wirt shot his mother a glance before answering Greg's question. "Depends."

There was a fuming tension between Wirt and his mother as they stared at eachother. Then, his mother said to Olivia, "Yes, they'll go with him."

Although Wirt felt a little relieved, he couldn't help but feel guilty, considering Greg hadn't even had a say in the matter. But Greg and Wirt's dad had met once, and they seemed to get along well. Stephen enjoyed Greg's stories, and Greg enjoyed having someone to listen to those stories with such interest.

Olivia wrote something down, then stood up. "Okay, boys, you can go upstairs and get anything you might want before you leave."

"Yes, ma'am," Greg replied, and the brothers walked upstairs to their room.

Wirt stuffed a few changes of clothes, a few notebooks, his toothbrush, and his clarinet into a backpack (with very much hassle), while Greg gathered together a box of crayons, three coloring books, three reading books, and a few outfits.

It took them ten minutes tops, and they came back down the stairs, where Olivia was ready, and their mother had tears in her eyes.

Wirt expected her to say something, even just a short goodbye to Greg, but she only sat still and silent.

"Come on," Olivia said, front door open to the darkening evening sky.

Wirt waited, even as he tied his shoe and approached the door, but she just stared ahead with no regards to them. Even as they closed the door, she said nothing.

As soon as they were gone, she laid her head down in her hands and cried.


	19. Exactly What He'd Wanted

The car ride with Olivia was stifled and uncomfortable. She was talking to somebody on the phone, with one hand on the wheel and the other holding her cell.

"Brian, I'm bringing them in right now... The Wilson and Harton kids, yes... No, I'm not driving with one hand-" She shifted the phone so it was pressed between her neck and shoulder in a position that looked like it must be straining on her neck, so she could set both hands on the steering wheel.

"I'll be there in, like... two minutes... alright, bye."

She quickly used one hand to hang up and set the phone back down.

There were a few moments of silence before Greg spoke up. "Ma'am, where're we going?"

Olivia glanced at Greg through the rear view mirror before looking back to the road. "We're going to a police station."

"Oh."

Wirt dreaded Greg's next question.

"Are there frogs allowed in the police station?"

Olivia raised her eyebrows. "Well, I... I've never heard that they're _not_ allowed, why?"

As if on cue, a frog peeked up through the top of Greg's jacket and croaked.

"Greg!" Wirt exclaimed. "Oh my gosh!"

"Ah jeez," Olivia said with nervous laughter. "Is that your pet?"

"Kind of," Greg answered, pulling the frog out and holding it out in front of his face. "But he's more like a friend than a pet. I asked Mom if we could get a dog but she said Dad's allergic."

"Well, does he have a name?"

Greg looked down in defeat. "Not yet."

"Well, how about Ralph, Micheal, Steve, William..."

"No thanks, those are people names, he needs a special name because he's a special frog."

"Well, I bid you good luck finding one."

"Thank you, social worker lady!"

The car pulled up to a large brick building, with police cars parked along the curb.

"Come on, get out, you guys," Olivia told them.

As Greg turned to leave the car, he looked at Wirt.

Wirt was simply staring out at the building, looking like he might puke. It was obvious to Greg that he didn't want to go, and it must have been obvious to Olivia as well.

She opened Wirt's door and set a hand on his shoulder.

Wirt didn't look up at her. "Is he in there?"

Olivia hesitated, then reassured him, "Yes, but he's on a different floor, so it's impossible to run into him."

Wirt pondered this a moment before sighing and stepping out of the car. Greg smiled and did the same. As soon as he did, he took Wirt's hand and followed them through the parking lot and into the building.

It didn't look the way Wirt had expected. He'd anticipated more people running around, talking on walkie-talkies, and answering phone calls, but there were only a few people at the front, and only about five officers behind the counter.

"Olivia!"

Olivia turned, and Wirt and Greg looked over to see a uniformed officer coming toward them.

"Brian, these are the boys, Wirt Wilson, Greg Harton." Olivia set her hands on their backs.

The officer, Brian, put out his hand, and each boy gave a hesitant shake. "I'm Officer Moore, but you can call me Brian."

"Brian's going to ask you guys about some things, okay?" Olivia's tone was condescending, but Wirt didn't care. He and Greg nodded.

"Alright, good, come with me," Brian advised them as he turned and began down a hall towards a door, which was just one among the many others in the hall. With obvious reluctance, Wirt and Greg followed, holding eachother's clammy hands.

To the right of the door were four chairs. Brian opened the door to what looked like an office, and held the door open with his foot.

"Boys," he began, "I need to interview both of you, but I'd like to do it seperately, alright? Wirt first."

Wirt nodded, but Greg frowned.

"I can't be with Wirt?"

Brian frowned as well, as if to share Greg's sorrow. "No, not now, I'm sorry, but he'll be sitting right out here." He motioned to the chairs.

Greg looked at them and sighed. He bit his upper lip, only to be distracted by Olivia, who took a small, white stuffed bear from the counter. "Hey, Gregory, look at this little guy."

"Are you ready?"

Wirt jumped at the sound of Brian's voice. "Uh, y-yeah."

With that, he followed Brian into the office and sat at the desk in the center of the room, across from where Brian proceeded to sit.

"Alright, Wirt. I need to ask you a few questions, and I need you to answer honestly, okay?" Brian reached under the desk as Wirt nodded, and pulled out a water bottle to give him. "You don't have answer if they make you uncomfortable, but it's best if you answer as many as possible."

"Okay." Wirt kept his eyes glued to the mountains and trees that decorated the water bottle's label.

"Okay, here we go." Brian then took on a very serious, solemn expression. "Wirt, do you know who called social services on your stepdad in the first place?"

Wirt's eyes only went astray for a second before he set them back on the bottle. "My... friend, Sara? Evans?"

Brian nodded. "Yes- well, her dad, he said she told him that you'd told her. They told us that your stepfather committed several acts of physical and sexual assault against you, now I need to know if what they said is the truth."

Wirt looked up for a second, stricken by the opportunity to deny it and to make his mother not mad at him, to let all this blow over and go back to the normal routine of his life.

 _Sick, miserable, disgusting, painful life_.

However, at the same time, he'd vowed to himself several times before that if he should ever seize the opportunity, he'd do anything to never have to walk within ten feet or see the face of that sick monster.

He took a deep breath. What else did he have to lose? "Yeah, it's the truth."

Saying it aloud to someone of such a high authority was enough to knock the breath out of him. He clutched his chest as if trying to slow down the sudden acceleration of his heart and the flood of fear in his chest. Just the realization that four simple words could turn his life into a deadly whirlwind hit him like a sack of bricks.

"Are you okay?" Brian asked. "Do you need some water?"

Wirt's hand twitched, wanting wrap his fingers around the bottle as a sort of grip on reality, but he shook his head. "N-no, I'm fine."

"Okay, it's alright, you're alright." Brian crossed his arms. "Can you tell me about the first time it happened?"

Wirt began picking at a scab on his arm to avoid looking up. If he looked up, he feared Jonathan's face might replace Brian's. "I was... um... seven- no, eight, I was eight. It was... Halloween, I'd gone trick-or-treating with two of my friends, and he... he picked me up f-from the, uh... th-the park, and..."

He trailed off, looking out the window to reassure himself it was daytime, not night; he wasn't in Jonathan's car; he was wearing a long-sleeved orange shirt, not a marching band uniform; Halloween had already passed; the man in front of him was a police officer, not a pedophile.

"And what?" Brian urged.

"...a-and he, uh... he drove us behind a few buildings - I think there was a bar or something, I don't remember exactly - and he...h-he..."

He looked up at Brian, who was leaning forward and waiting for him to continue.

"He came into the backseat, a-a-and..."

He set his hands over his face and hid behind them, not wanting to say anything further.

"Try to stay with me, buddy, what happened?"

With his eyes shut and eyes covered by his moist, trembling hands, he tried to envision he was home alone, sitting in his closet and murmuring poetry to himself. He was alone, no one could hear him. What happened? He had merely asked himself. And he responded in a shaking whisper. "H-h-he raped me."

Then it was reality again. It was so surreal, saying the 'R' word to Brian and just... facing his own circumstances from an outside view.

He hadn't even known what that word meant until he was thirteen, and didn't know for a long time what it was that Jonathan did. Up to that point, it was just something that Jonathan did that made him feel disgusting all over. Learning what it was made things make sense, and it made him feel a little less terrible about himself.

Brian nodded in approval. "Good, thank you, you're doing well."

Wirt looked up at him. There was no judgment on the officer's face, just sympathy and a desire to help. It was comforting.

"How often did he do it?" Brian asked.

"Like... every couple days for the past seven years."

"And you never told?"

Wirt looked at his lap. "I told my mom a few years ago, but she didn't believe me."

" _Christ_." Then, Brian sat up in his seat. "Wirt, I know you're not going to want to do it, and I know it's going to be difficult, but in order to gather evidence against your stepfather in trial, we're going to need to have doctors take a look at you for physical evidence, do you understand?"

Wirt cringed not only at the fact that he knew what Brian meant by physical evidence, but also at the word _trial_. Just the very idea of recalling the abuse in morbid detail with his stepdad less than thirty feet away shook up his nerves. "Really?"

"Really."

The thought of being looked at in his lower regions by doctors he didn't even know was repulsing.

But if he had to do it to keep himself and, more importantly, Greg safe, he'd muster up whatever courage he could. He'd do it a thousand times.

For Greg.

Brian stood up and pat down the wrinkles in his uniform. "Alright, that's it."

Wirt looked up at him. "We're done?"

"Yep, you can go outside now, I'm going to talk to you brother now."

"Can I be in here with him?"

"I'm afraid you can't."

"Why not? He's going to be scared!"

"Look, it's nothing personal against you, but for legal reasons, we can't risk the possibility that the witness was trained the say something and will be intimidated into repeating it rather than giving us the truth."

Wirt wanted to argue that he didn't train Greg to say anything, but he knew that wouldn't look good on his part to be so defensive. So he kept quiet. He wanted this trial to be as successful as possible.

They exited the room, and Greg hopped off his seat with glee with the bear still in his hands. "Wirt!"

"Hey," Wirt murmured, accepting a tight hug from his little brother.

"Greg?" Olivia said softly. "Officer Brian would like to talk to you for a few minutes."

Greg's face fell. "Am I in trouble?"

"No, no, of course not," Brian assured him. "I just need to talk to you for a minute."

As Brian led Greg into the room, Greg turned to look at Wirt, who managed an encouraging smile. "You'll be okay, don't worry, I'll be right here."

The door shut, and Wirt sat down in the chair next to Olivia. He watched the clock intensely, trying to hear inside the door, though he couldn't. He bounced his knee and fiddled with his fingers before Olivia snapped him out of his trance.

"It's alright, he'll be alright."

There was a momentary silence before Wirt looked up at Olivia. "What about the trial?"

"What about it?"

"What if he's too scared to say anything?"

Olivia shut her mouth, then sighed. "We'll just need to find out if he's competent."

"Competent?"

"If he's able to talk in the court room."

Wirt didn't even think he himself would be competent.

"Hey," Olivia said, setting a hand on his shoulder. "It'll be okay."

Wirt looked at her face, and, after a few moments, he offered a small, grateful smile. "Thank you."

It'll be okay.

It'll be okay.

...

Though deep inside he knew it was too good to be true.

xxxxxxx

The second the car pulled up to the curb in front of Stephen's house, the front door swung open and an anxious Stephen ran out with his knuckle between his teeth, biting down hard enough to leave raw, red marks.

As soon as Wirt and Greg exited the car, Stephen rushed over and pulled them both into the most crushing hug they'd both ever received.

"Are you two okay?" He asked them, pulling away but keeping his hands on their shoulders.

They both nodded.

Stephen embraced them once again, all the while mumbling, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Dad, dad, it's okay," Wirt reassured him. If he didn't have his and Greg's backpacks in his hands, he might have hugged his dad back.

Stephen held them like that for what felt like an entire minute before releasing them and taking the backpacks. "Come on, let's go inside, have you had dinner yet?"

"Nope," Greg answered, taking Wirt by surprise. Greg had been too anxious to speak after he'd been interviewed by Brian and had been silent during the car ride.

"Alright, um... pizza?" Stephen asked, entering the house.

Greg gasped. "Yeah!"

With a laugh, Stephen set the backpacks next to the coat rack. "Okay, you guys go get settled into Wirt's room real quick, I'll be right back."

Greg watched as Stephen shook hands with and spoke to Olivia.

"Come on, Greg," Wirt called out as he began down the hall to his room.

His bedroom at his dad's house was fairly large, with plain walls, a blue rug spread out amongst the beige carpet, a wardrobe in the left corner opposite of the door, a pullout couch up against the wall, and the closet off to the right. The closet was nearly empty, aside from a stack of unread books in the corner. The room was simple, but Wirt liked it. He usually hadn't used the pullout bed, he just slept on it like a sofa. But with Greg here, he'd have to pull it out for both of them to use.

The front door shut, and they could both hear Wirt's father coming down the hall.

The door opened, and Stephen began.

"I just spoke with the social worker. She says you'll be seeing a doctor tomorrow, and meeting your lawyer on Tuesday."

Wirt gulped. "Lawyer?"

With a solemn expression, Stephen nodded.

The tension was heavy, enough to make Greg jump up and announce, "I'm gonna go get our stuff." He went scurrying out to the front door to grab the backpacks from beside it, leaving Wirt and his father alone.

"This is really happening..." Wirt murmured only to himself. Stephen heard him, but didn't respond.

There was another round of silence before Greg came running back in and tossed the backpacks onto the pullout couch.

He stood between Wirt and Stephen, waiting for either of them to break the silence. When it became clear they wouldn't, he sighed loudly to get their attention.

"Come on, Worry Wirt, let's put our things away, your dad is gonna get pizza and we need to hurry before the pizza guy comes and the pizza gets all cold."

Wirt looked up at Greg from his spot on the ground.

It was astonishing that Greg could still be so determined and positive considering their current circumstances.

Did he have any idea that they'd have to speak in a court room with an intimidating jury and their abuser in the stands, staring them down?

Did he have any idea that their very lives could be at risk if they said anything wrong?

Did he have any idea that Jonathan could strike if they weren't careful?

Maybe his little mind couldn't comprehend it.

But on the bright side, Greg's inbreachable innocence was exactly what he'd wanted.


	20. What Are We Doing Here?

_November 2nd. Even with Jonathan not around, I'm riddled with guilt. Especially over thoughts of her._

_Does she know what I've done? Does she know that I have guilt and shame eating me away on the inside?_

_I was completely powerless to say or do anything, and I did things that I should go to Hell for. I wish she knew. I wish I could tell her._

_I wish she knew that I've done things worse than she could ever comprehend._

xxxxx

**If you press your nose against the space where the edge of your front door meets the doorway, it smells sweet and cool (for lack of a better word), and even kind of otherwordly. It's a strange, pleasant scent that can only be found in that door crevice and, as I've come to find, in a church.**

**That's exactly what the Unknown smells like.**

**"Wirt?" says a small voice behind me, and I jump. I forgot Greg was behind me, and I turn to him.**

**He asks, "What are we doing here?"**

**I turn back around and gaze at the clearing of trees ahead of me. They're all damp, with raindrops sliding off the surface of the brown and orange leaves. They all give me serenity, they're all so tranquil and make me feel secure, the knowledge that I'm in an entirely different world here makes everything here even more pleasant, that much is clear.**

**But Greg's question really does make me wonder why or how I ever started coming here in the first place.**

**Beatrice had told me that it was because I was either dying or just troubled. It's quite obvious I wasn't dying (unless a fatal disease can come and go without drawing attention to itself), and although I was troubled, there are plenty more troubled children in the world, I'm sure there are at least ten other troubled children in my neighborhood who suffered worse than me, and I've never seen anybody here that I knew in the real world.**

**But that makes me wonder how Greg and I both ended up here. Yes, we'd been in the same ambulance at the same time, both unconscious and shivering, both in the same predicament.**

**However, if that's what made us both appear here, then I should have seen other children from the real world. I'm sure I wasn't the only kid in my town who fell asleep at night crying and gripping their covers after just being abused, trembling so violently that their bones could have broken under the self-induced pressure.**

**I wonder if I'll ever get an answer or a reason, or if it'll just be the way it is, no questions asked.**

**I've been lost in my thoughts for so long, Greg has to call my name to get my attention again.**

**"Wirt?"**

**"S-sorry, what did you say?"**

**"I asked what we're doing here."**

**I sigh. Oh yeah, that's the question. "I... I don't know."**

**"Oh."**

xxxxx

No matter how loud the alarm clock screeched, Wirt only ignored it and pressed his pillow over his ears.

It was Monday, and he'd have to go to school while all he wanted to do was curl up and sleep for next few decades.

Greg was up as soon as the alarm began blaring, and with no tired reluctance, he sat up, stretched, and began dressing himself for the day. He sat on his bed and pulled on his sneakers, tying him the way he'd been taught by his dad. When he turned around, he sighed disapprovingly at his exhausted big brother and slid off the bed.

He unclenched Wirt's fist from the tight wad of wrinkled pillowcase and began tugging his arm. "Come on, Wirt, we have to go to school!"

Wirt groaned, pulling his arm from Greg and using it to shut the alarm up. Then he tucked it back under the pillow and attempted to fall back asleep.

Greg frowned, and looked thoughtfully around the room for anything that might get his brother up.

Then, with a grin, he spotted the perfect tool.

He picked it up tenderly, patting and shushing it. It only looked up at him and blinked.

Greg approached the bed quietly and held the tool over Wirt, and then...

"Surprise!"

Wirt yelped as something wet and moving was dropped onto his face, and he sat up frantically. It fell into his lap, and once it composed itself, it croaked up at him.

" _Greg_! Y-you threw your frog at me!"

"Yep, I sure did!" Greg bounced on his toes with accomplishment.

Wirt began attempting to wipe the moisture off his face with his palms. "That's disgusting!"

"It got you up, didn't it?"

Wirt stared at the frog. "I-I guess, but... _ew_."

Now that he was awake and startled, he decided it was best to get up and dressed. After rubbing the sticky frog residue off his face, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater, his socks and shoes, and picked up his backpack. "Okay, come on."

Greg happily obliged, following Wirt downstairs, where sink water could be heard running.

Wirt saw the steam rising from the sink as soon as he saw his father standing next to it. The water looked painfully hot, but his dad was staring up at nothing, seemingly fazed by something else and not the nearly boiling water landing on his hands. He was holding a soapy sponge and a skillet, and he looked pale and wide-eyed, scaring both Wirt and Greg.

"Dad?" Wirt called out to him.

His dad's glance snapped toward him, and whatever daze he'd been in had let him go. "What?" Immediately after, he hissed loudly and dropped the sponge and skillet with a loud clamor that made both boys jump. He pulled his hands away from the sink as if just noticing that the water had been so hot.

His hands stung and tingled painfully as he grabbed a towel and wiped his hands on it. He turned the fossit to cold, and tried to soothe the burning pain. Wirt and Greg watched on with clear concern and bewilderment.

" _Ssshhffffddddd_...dang it." The pain continued to sear in Stephen's hands, but he still tried to smile up at his son and Greg. "How did you two sleep last night?"

"Fine," they replied in unison.

"Do you guys want breakfast? Sorry, I was going to make you guys eggs but... yeah." He help up his red hands. "Little bit of a setback."

Wirt chuckled lightheartedly and shook his head. "It's fine, we'll eat at school. I'll drop Greg off and walk so you don't have to drive with those." He reached down for Greg's hand. "Come on, let's go."

"By the way, boys," Stephen called to them as Wirt opened the door. "I'll be picking you both up from school because your appointment is at four-thirty."

Wirt stopped for a second and looked down at the floor with a visible cringe on his face. "...okay."

With that, he shut the door and began sluggishly down the sidewalk toward Greg's school.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There were barely three minutes to spare before the first bell rang. Wirt entered the gates of his school and contemplated whether or not to go toward the band room as he usually did.

He decided against it and began walking toward his first class. From behind him, he could hear swift footsteps making their way up next to him.

"Wirt!" Sara greeted him breathlessly.

He didn't ignore her, but he didn't look at her either. "...hi."

There was a short moment of silence, with Wirt staring at the ground, and Sara glancing between him and the ground as well.

"Are you alright?"

Wirt only hummed in response, leading into another daunting silence before Sara finally sighed.

"I'm sorry, okay?"

Wirt said nothing in response.

"I listened to your tape, and-and... I- you were talking about...about... And I didn't want you to have to go through it anymore, I just wanted you to be okay."

She paused as if expecting him to respond, but he didn't.

He continued staring at the concrete. He knew she really did care, and he knew that, realistically, it was the best thing she could have done.

But the bitter side of him wondered, what the hell did she know? She didn't know what he could have done because she'd told. Jonathan could have killed him, or her, or Greg, or his mother, or all of them if he really wanted to.

Could Jonathan really kill someone?

He shuddered inwardly at the thought, because he didn't doubt that that sick monster could kill someone and remain emotionally unscathed by his actions.

The bell rang, interrupting his thoughts and the conversation.

"I need to go." Wirt walked quickly ahead, making Sara stop in her tracks and watch him leave. The sight made her heart wrench, watching him walk away, like it was a physical manifestation of how he was beginning to distance himself from her.

Once he turned down the hall, she turned on her heel and walked back to the band room, wiping away a few threatening tears with the cuff of her jacket sleeve.

The band room was rowdy and full of the sounds of instruments warming up and students talking.

Matt was just opening his alto saxophone case before Sara came over.

"Hey, what's up?" He asked, and his expression softened. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, it's nothing- um... can you lead the ensemble today?"

"Yeah, of course," he said, pulling her closer and kissing her forehead.

"Just... go over the show. Clarinets still need to work on the ballad at the beginning of part two and the triplets at the beginning of part three..."

As soon as she was finished telling him the lesson plan, she sat in the locker room, put on her headphones, and cried until the period ended.


	21. Promise

Mercedes Atkinson was a middle-aged woman of butterscotch complexion and hair cut down to her shoulder blades. She had a good bedside manner: reassuring, patient, understanding.

But despite her pleasant appearance, she was a stern lawyer who meant business.

She was standing at the top of the stairs of the second story of the court house, hands folded in front of her. They were two minutes early, but she considered that a good thing. She was a huge puncuality fanatic.

"Hello, Ms... Atkinson?" Stephen greeted, straightening his shirt and catching his breath. Mercedes smiled and nodded, holding out a hand to shake.

"Call me Mercedes. Are these the boys?"

"Yeah, here's Wirt, Greg." Stephen motioned to them, and they stepped forward.

"Good afternoon," she told them, shaking each of their hands.

She led them over to a small bench next to the door of her office. The door was open, and they could see a desk with a spinning chair, and a wooden chair next to it. Sitting at one end of the desk was a younger looking woman with wavy dark hair, in front of a typewriter.

"I'd like to talk to Wirt first, if that's alright."

"Yeah, of course," Stephen said, looking toward his son, who was staring off at nothing in particular. When it was apparent he hadn't been listening, he called out, "Wirt."

Wirt visibly jumped, looking up at Mercedes and at his father in alarm. "What?"

"Come with me please," Mercedes said.

Wirt stood, and Mercedes led him into the office and motioned for him to sit down on the wooden chair.

"So I'm sure you've heard, my name is Mercedes Atkinson. Over here is my assistant, Laura, she'll be typing down everything you say, okay?"

Wirt nodded.

All of a sudden, the door burst open, and all heads in the room turned to see Olivia rushing in. "I'm so sorry, I got stuck in traffic and I wasn't informed of the meeting until about half an hour ago."

Mercedes gave her a dismissive nod, and turned her attention back to Wirt.

"So, Wirt, you're fifteen, correct?"

Wirt nodded. "Yes."

"Really now? When's your birthday?"

He looked up at her, a little at ease now by her simple questions. "January."

"So you'll be sixteen soon, huh? Have you been learning to drive at all?"

"Not really. My dad was going to teach me but he never got around to it. My friend Sara drives though, she's a few months older than me."

"Sara?" Mercedes took on a more grim, gentle tone. "And is she the Sara who's the reason you're here?"

And then Wirt retracted once again, looking down at his folded hands. "Yeah."

"Wirt, do you know what she told her father?"

Wirt flinched, dreading the taste of the words on his tongue. Just the thought made his stomach churn and his heart race with fear. "That my... s-stepdad was... uh... doing... things..."

Mercedes nodded.

"And what kind of things did he do?"

He looked up Olivia, and she nodded to him.

He looked back up at Mercedes, then down at his fingers. "He... he..." He put his hands over his eyes and kept his head down. "H-he abused me and my brother."

His voice was timid and quiet, and Mercedes looked up at Laura. "Did you get that?"

Laura shook her head.

"Wirt, I need you to repeat what you just said, louder this time or Laura can't hear you."

Wirt sighed, anxious and frustrated. He just wanted to leave and get away from these stupid questions, to quit being asked to think about it, every detail, _every wandering hand_ \- "He abused me and my brother."

"When was the last time he did it?"

"Um..." He fumbled with his sweaty hands, trying to remember numbers and days of things he hated remembering. "Two days before Halloween."

"Wirt, I know it's difficult, but I need you to tell me exactly what he did two days before Halloween."

Wirt's chest seized. " _Everything_?"

"As much as you can."

Wirt looked down, holding onto the arm rests and wondering how easy it would be to bolt out of the room.

No, he told himself. Just listen to the typewriter, don't lose yourself. Concentrate on the typewriter.

And so he did. He took a deep breath and told her each disgusting, excruciating detail he could, trying to keep his speech on autopilot while his mind stayed on each click of the typewriter.

By the time he was finished speaking, he realized how badly he was shaking, and how much his back hurt from the tension.

"Okay, thank you, Wirt. Can you please send your brother in?"

Wirt hardly nodded before frantically leaving the room.

His dad took notice of him immediately, looking concerned, almost guilty. "What happened?"

"Greg, they want to see you," Wirt managed, sitting down with his hands on his knees.

Greg looked a little scared, wondering what possibly could have rattled his big brother so much. He slid off the bench and went into the room.

The friendly-looking lady named Mercedes shut the door. "Hi, Gregory, can you please sit down right there?"

Greg sat down in the wooden chair, his feet unable to touch the floor.

"Gregory, do you know why you're here today?"

Greg looked over at Laura, suddenly entranced by the old device. He'd only seen such typing machines on the TV, but he'd never seen one in real life.

He turned snappily back around to Mercedes, remembering what his teacher had told him about focusing on one thing at a time.

"To talk about my dad?"

Mercedes nodded and smiled gently. "Yes. Can you tell me about him?"

Greg looked up at the room, unable to think of something worth telling. "He likes sports... and... space and planets and stuff."

"Has he taught you to play any sports?"

Greg shook his head. "He said when I get older, I can play football, but I don't like football."

"Has he taught you anything about space?"

Greg nodded. "He told me that in millions and bazillions of years, our galaxy is going to crash into another galaxy and become one bigger galaxy."

"Wow. What galaxy?"

"It's called the... an... andro... adron..."

"Andromeda," Olivia finished for him.

Greg looked up at her and smiled, glad she knew what he was talking about. She smiled right back.

"Greg," Mercedes began, more seriously now, "has your dad ever touched you in a way that made you scared or uncomfortable?"

Greg's smile vanished, and a lump got caught in this throat. He stared at Mercedes trivially, unable to answer her question. He was too confused to speak.

But he managed, though it wasn't the answer anybody expected.

"Did you know that frogs can jump over 20 times their own body length?"

Mercedes looked a little taken aback, and even Laura looked up, wondering if she should type that. Mercedes nodded at her.

"Really? Wow, that's so high for such a small animal. But Greg, that wasn't my question."

Greg looked shamefully up at Olivia, then quickly back to Mercedes.

"I'll repeat myself one more time, and I need an honest answer. Has your father ever-"

But Greg gave her no time to finish her sentence. "Did you know that frogs never close their eyes, not even to sleep?"

Mercedes looked up at Olivia, realizing what Greg was doing.

She sighed. "Okay, Gregory, you can go now."

Greg hopped out of the chair and left the room.

Then, Stephen was called in. He left the boys a five dollar bill for the vending machine.

As Greg slipped the bill into the vending machine, Wirt looked over at his father and Mercedes. She shook her head at his father and said, "Greg's incompetent."

And in that very moment, Wirt knew he was alone.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**The walking is endless, yet never silent. As Greg and I wander through the trees, he sings to himself and says hello to every creature he sees- every squirrel, every bug, even to every spider.**

**Then all of a sudden, he sighs and stops walking. "Wirt, can we sit down? I'm tired."**

**I'm about to refuse and tell him to quit complaining, but the bottoms of my feet hurt, and Greg had had the common sense to ask when there was a log nearby to sit down on. So we sit down to rest for just a few minutes.**

**As Greg takes a seat, a small bluebird flies our way and perches lightly onto a branch.**

**I stare at it, wistfully remembering my old friend. She looks right back at me, and I humor myself: what if it can talk? What if it could cock its little bird eyebrow, open its beak and-**

**"Jeez, hasn't anyone ever told you it's impolite to stare?"**

**Startled, I gasp and fall backward, right onto my rump, my red cap falling onto the ground. The bluebird rolls its- her eyes, and Greg laughs.**

**"Beatrice!"**

**Beatrice laughed. "You haven't changed a bit."**

**"Hey, you're the bird lady I met at the tavern!"**

**"Wait, Greg, you've met her?"**

**Beatrice buts in as Greg opens his mouth and lifts a finger. "Yeah, last time you guys were here. Don't worry about it."**

**"What's wrong?" I ask, sitting up with my legs criss-crossed. I remember her being snappy and impatient, but not this persistent. It makes me feel a little uneasy.**

**"What are you two doing here?" She asks me quietly, like a parent trying to reprimand their spouse without their child hearing. But even if we were speaking at regular volume, Greg wouldn't hear a word. He'd already occupied with something else, stacking twigs like Lincoln Logs to make a tiny, uneven, doll-sized cottage.**

**"Uh...walking... wh-why, exactly?"**

**"It's not safe for you to be here, The Beast..."**

**The Beast? I haven't heard about him or even thought about him in so long, but as soon as she mentions him, I can vividly recall my first encounter with him, with him holding me by the arm and staring me down, and then lifting my baby brother- "What about him?"**

**"He's waiting for you two. Don't ask why, because I don't know. But he's... he wants to..."**

**I gulp. "Turn us into trees?"**

**Beatrice nods.**

**"B-but why-"**

**"Again, I don't know. But trust me, I've heard him talking to somebody, about a 'pilgrim boy and the brother.'"**

**"Pffft... that could be anybody."**

**Beatrice glares at me, and I sigh.**

**"Yeah, there's absolutely nobody else that could be."**

**I stand up and brush myself off, picking my hat back up and putting it back on my head to cover my shamefully messy hair ("Permanent bedhead," Sara calls it).**

**"Wirt, I need you to promise me something," Beatrice asks me seriously. "Promise me you won't ever come back here."**

**I only look at her.**

**I know her warnings are adamant and she means to keep us safe, but I can't let this place go. So I don't say anything. "Let's go, Greg." Greg stands up and pats his twig cottage goodbye. "Goodbye, Beatrice."**

**We continue on our way, leaving Beatrice behind, and, after several minutes, Greg looks up at me. "We aren't go to be turned into trees, are we?"**

**I look down at him, eyebrows furrowed. I feel guilty, having let him hear the conversation I thought he wasn't paying attention to.**

**"No, we aren't."**

**"Promise?"**

**I sigh and wrap an arm around him.**

**"Promise."**

**Because that's a promise I can keep.**

_**Hopefully.** _


	22. Faces All Over

_November 14th. When they asked Jonathan his plea, he told the jury, "Not guilty."_

_No surprise._

_It's the same thing he's said at the last three trials._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**"Beast! Beast!" The old voice calls out into the night toward the shadow.**

**"What is it, Woodsman?" The Beast inquires in his deep, mighty voice.**

**"They've been here! They've come back!"**

**"Who?"**

**"The boys! The pilgrim boy and his brother!"**

**"What?! How- how do you know?"**

**"I-I've seen 'em!"**

**"What- what do you mean you've seen them?!"**

**"They were here! They were speaking to the bird girl!"**

**"Wait, you saw them? And you didn't think to keep them here?"**

**The Woodsman freezes. "I-I... How would I've-?"**

**"You could have told me before they left!" The Beast stands, inching dauntingly toward the Woodsman. "Or you could have lured the brother first, he's niave and doesn't know any better! Brought him to me, and then gone back and captured the older one."**

**"B-but, Beast, he's- he's an older child, he's bigger than-"**

**"He's just a scrawny fool!" The Beast roars, and the Woodsman trembles. "It wouldn't have been difficult! And he wouldn't have left without the brother anyhow!"**

**The Woodsman is too petrified to speak now. Everything around them becomes pitch black, so he can only focus on the Beast's eyes, those glowing rings of blue, yellow, and pink.**

**"Now you have no idea when, or even if they'll return! All because you were an insolent moron!"**

**And with that, The Woodsman falls unconscious to the ground, dropping the lantern and his ax.**

xxxxxx

The evening before Wirt would be taking the stand, Olivia, in her generous manner, treated them to dinner in a small café, a five minute drive from the court room.

As soon as their waiter jotted down their orders, Olivia cleared her throat and took Wirt and Greg by the hands.

"Now, I just wanted to let you guys know what's going on so far. I can tell you who the witnesses are, but I can't tell you what they've said. Understand?"

Wirt nodded, and Greg mimicked him, even though he didn't really know much of what they were talking about.

"So far, we've had myself, the medical examiner, Jonathan, Sara's father- " He flinched. If Sara's father had testified, that means Sara had to have been there too, right? He hadn't spoken to her since she approached him at school. Now he wanted more than anything to talk to her, and to ask if she had been in the court room. And if she had, ask about what she'd seen and heard. _Would that be breaking the law?_

"Wirt?"

Wirt blinked out of his daze. "Wh- sorry, what?"

"Do you remember whom I'm talking about?"

"Who?"

Olivia sighed, and a rush of guilt came through him. "Do you remember Alfred Meecham?"

Wirt shook his head slowly, but the name Meecham sounded somewhat familiar. He knew he'd never had a teacher with that name... Mr. Meecham...

 _Dr. Meecham_? "Wait, the therapist?"

Olivia nodded. "And do you remember what he diagnosed you with?"

Wirt squinted his eyes and shook his head. "My mom wouldn't tell me, but I had to take pills for a year." He looked up at his dad, who looked even more confused than he did.

"Wait, what are you talking about? What pills? _What therapist_?" He began raising his voice.

Olivia looked surprised. "You don't know?"

"Don't know what? _When_ did my son see a _therapist_?"

Olivia looked hesitantly between Wirt and Stephen with her tongue in her cheek. "I really shouldn't be talking about this," She turned to Wirt. "But when you were nine, Dr. Meecham diagnosed you with Schizoaffective disorder."

Wirt's jaw dropped. "Why didn't... wait, why did he..."

Olivia lowered her voice to just above a whisper. "Now Jonathan's lawyer is trying to use that diagnosis against you."

Wirt suddenly wanted to cry. He hadn't even been inside, let alone seen the court room or met the judge or Jonathan's lawyer, and he already had a brick wall built in front of him. That wasn't fair, that wasn't fair _at all_.

"Wait, I had no idea about any of that!" Stephen snapped. "His mom never told me about any therapist! Can't we hold that against her? Can't we, like... hold her for... contempt or something?"

Olivia chuckled lightheartedly. "That's not what contempt is, Mr. Wilson. And either way, regardless of whether or not you knew about the diagnosis, that wouldn't be considered relevant to your case."

Stephen had his fists clenched in frustration.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Wilson."

He took a deep breath and unclenched his fists, running his hands over his forehead. "No, I'm sorry for yelling. I'm just..."

"Food!" Greg cried out with glee, and sure enough, their waiter was coming by with four plates.

He distributed their dishes, and as soon as Wirt's plate touched the table, he looked up to the waiter and asked, "Can I get a to-go box please?"

The waiter smiled and nodded. "'Course, be right back with that." He walked off.

Greg looked sadly up at Wirt, who wasn't even looking at his food.

"Hey, Greg, want me to cut up that steak for you?" Olivia asked to get his attention off his brother.

Stephen looked down at his son, who was visibly shaking. He set a hand down on his back. "Wirt..."

Wirt jumped, wide-eyed and shaking his head. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I-I'm not hungry. I'm fine though."

But he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it together.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**The air smells of rain, and it's unbearably cold and foggy, though with no hint of precipitation. Greg is shivering behind me, his teeth are chattering so loudly it's the only thing my ears can focus on.**

**I take off my cloak and hand it to him. He grins and takes it, wrapping it over himself like a blanket and grunting out a shivering, "Th-th-thank-k-ks, W-W-W-Wirt."**

**I only nod to him, wrapping my arms around myself and looking up at our surroundings.**

**"The tavern should be around here somewhere..." I think aloud, stopping and spinning around slowly to take in the sight of everything. But none of it looks familiar.**

**Greg stops and stands next to me. "Are we lost?"**

**I glare. "No, I know where I'm going."**

**Greg looks in the same direction as I do, and furrows his eyebrows. "Are you sure? It doesn't seem like you do..."**

**"I do, okay? I've been here hundreds- no, _thousands_ of times. So just... be quiet and let me concentrate."**

**Greg puts up an "OK" sign on his fingers and continues to follow behind me.**

**We walk another twenty minutes or so before I see a shadow appear, and then disappear just as quickly behind a tree, almost like the flicker of a candle.**

**I freeze, wide-eyed. "Greg, did you see that?"**

**But I don't receive an answer.**

**I turn around, alarmed and hoping that he is simply staying silent because I told him to. But he's not behind me.**

**I begin panicking, sweating and wondering how long ago he'd wandered off. And in these woods, he could be anywhere.**

**"Greg?!"**

**"Wirt!" I hear from somewhere behind me.**

**I gasp, and run towards his voice. I find him several yards away, looking a little freaked out. "Look!" He says, pointing forward.**

**I look, and I see a body. The body of an elderly man. The Woodsman!**

**At first, I feel sick. Then I see the rise and fall of his chest, and I am relieved.**

**I slowly tip toe towards him, and pick up the two items next to him. A lantern, and an ax.**

**I can't help but feel a little guilty, stealing from an unconscious, senile old man. But I know these will come in handy.**

**"Here, hold this." I hand Greg the lantern, and he stares at the flame inside.**

**"Let's go, maybe that'll help us."**

**We continue walking on, now with the security of the ax and the light of the lantern.**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The court room was bustling. He hadn't even entered it, and Wirt could already see it just from standing outside the doors.

"Alright, Wirt," Mercedes said, adjusting Wirt's red tie. "This is it. You nervous?"

Wirt looked up at her with a look of _I-feel-a-million-times-worse-than-nervous-and-you-know-it_.

She smiled. "I know. It's scary. But don't let it get the best of you. You can do this. Take deep breaths, and remember to speak up and tell them the truth."

Wirt nodded.

"You don't have to look at him. Just, try to act like he's not even there."

 _God, if I could_. Wirt thought to himself. _But sometimes it feels like he's there even when he's not. How can I pretend he's not there when he is, if I can't even tell myself he's not when he isn't?_

Mercedes looked down at her watch. "I need to go in now, they'll call you in when they're ready for you, okay?"

Wirt nodded, pressing his lips together.

She flashed him one last smile. "Good luck." With that, she left him to sit on the bench outside the court room, and entered the doors. Wirt sat in silence, slouching over with his hands over his mouth.

He felt like he might throw up. He was trembling violently, and he felt so cold.

Time was going by so slowly, every second felt like a minute. He didn't want to go through this. He hated each and every time they'd asked him to describe what had happened, but this time, he'd have to do it _in front of_ Jonathan.

He didn't want to go through it again, he dreaded it too much to even wish he could just get it over with.

"Wirt Wilson," said a male voice from beside him, and he jumped, looking up to see the bailiff. "Go on in."

Wirt took one last deep, shuddering breath before standing up and letting the bailiff lead him in through the doors.

As he was led down the aisle, he was completely aware of all the eyes on him. He looked down at the floor.

They all knew. They all knew at least a little bit of everything. They all knew what he'd said, what had been done to him...

Some, if not most, of them even probably thought he was a crazy, mentally ill liar.

As he reached the front, he noted that Mercedes, Olivia, his father, and Greg were on the right, and Jonathan and his lawyer were to the left. _Wait, no, other way around. If I'm standing right here, Mercedes is on the right, but if I'm sitting up there, she's to the left. Or... stage right? Is that what Sara calls it?_

He was sitting up at the stand before he even realized it.

He looked up, just a little.

Nearly everybody's eyes were on him.

But the one pair that hurt most were his mom's. She was wearing a floral dress, her hair was up, she'd even put a bit of makeup on, which she seldom did. But even under her makeup, he could see the lines on her face and the bags under her eyes.

The bailiff had him stand up and raise his right hand. _EYES_. "Wirt Wilson, do you solemnly swear or affirm under the penalties of perjury that the testimony you are about to offer is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

Swallowing, Wirt said aloud, "Yes."

"Be seated." Wirt sat back down. There was a slight shuffle and a few whispers, some throats cleared, pens picked up.

Mercedes stood, straightening out her dress. "Hello, Wirt, how are you today?"

Her tone was gentle. It made Wirt's nerves calm, just a tiny bit. He'd felt as if his world was collapsing, but it couldn't be if Mercedes could manage to keep her voice so sweet and reassuring.

"I'm going to ask you some questions now, alright?"

Wirt nodded.

"Can you orally identify Sara Evans?"

Easy question. Complicated, yet easy. "She's a... she's my friend."

"Good. And on November 1st of this year, do you know what she told her father?"

Wirt nodded.

"Speak up, please," Mercedes urged.

"Yes."

"And what did Sara tell her father?"

And this is where it began, Wirt's worst nightmare. He began to felt light-headed. What would happen if he passed out on the stand? If he just completely keeled over?

"She told him... that... that... that my... st-stepfather was... d-doing things."

"What kind of things?"

Wirt began picking at what felt like old gum under the seat.

He could feel Jonathan's eyes on him. They were piercing through him, trying to make him stay silent. And they were very much working. A part of Wirt had been entertaining the notion that maybe Jonathan would be just as nervous as he was. But as Wirt should have expected, he wasn't. Jonathan was no better than some cold-blooded, sick monster.

As if she could tell, Mercedes stepped to the right, between Jonathan and Wirt. So Jonathan couldn't see him, and he couldn't see Jonathan.

"That he was... s-s-...sexually abusing me and my brother."

"And was Sara telling the truth when she told her father that, Wirt?"

He began to nod, but stopped and croaked out, "Yes."

He looked up, suddenly wondering if Sara or her father were there in the courtroom. But they weren't.

"How did Sara find out about the abuse, Wirt?"

"I told her."

"When?"

"A-at a party, um... a couple weeks ago, I think." God, it felt like a _lifetime_ ago.

"Good. Now, Wirt, I need you to tell me how often this happened."

Nausea bubbled in his stomach, but he realized that he hadn't even eaten anything that morning. "Um... it... a few times a week."

"And for how long?"

"Um... s-seven years, since I was eight."

"Did you ever tell anybody besides Sara?"

Wirt looked up. He couldn't face Jonathan, but he could face...

"I told my mom."

Immediately, his mother looked down. He couldn't read her face, but he knew there was resentment there.

"When?"

"When I was eleven."

"How did she react?"

Wirt took a deep breath. "She didn't believe me and she told me not to tell anybody else."

Mercedes nodded. "Your honor, I have no more questions."

"Thank you, Ms. Atkinson."

Wirt was almost relieved to be finished, even if just for today, he was ready to bolt off and leave the building.

Then Jonathan's lawyer stood up.

She was about in her late-forties, with hair so blonde, you almost couldn't tell it was beginning to grey.

Now he was more scared than before. She was on Jonathan's side, and she looked ruthless.

"Wirt," she began in a spiteful, confident tone. "Let me take you back to Halloween night of this year. You and your brother were admitted to Aberdale Hospital, am I correct?"

Wirt was back to staring down. "Yes."

"What exactly put you in there, Wirt?"

He didn't like talking about that either. It didn't make him scared or feel disgusting all over, but it very much made him feel ashamed. "I... I tried to drown me and my brother."

"Why?"

"Because... Because I didn't want... me or my brother to hurt anymore... and I couldn't find another way out."

"Do you not find that to be reckless?" The lawyer challenged. "You put both you and your brother in danger. That sounds less like a cry for help and more like an act of pure insanity-"

"Objection, your honor," Mercedes cut in. "She's treating the witness as hostile."

"Sustained. Mrs. Brown, please proceed with real questions."

The lawyer, Mrs. Brown apparently, nodded. "My apologies your honor." She turned her attention back to Wirt. "Now, you mentioned that you told your mother about the alleged abuse, correct?"

Wirt confirmed with a nervous yes.

"Now, your mother brought it to our attention that, just a few hours before you made the allegation, there'd been a newscast about a thirteen year old who'd been sexually abused by her stepfather as well, do you recall?"

This time, when Wirt said, "Yes," his voice cracked, and he clenched his fist.

"Then isn't it possible that that story influenced you, and you said it for attention?"

This time, Wirt was a little more adamant, but still timid. "No."

"Then why did you tell her on that particular night than any other night?"

"B-because... it... I don't know... I thought since she hated people who... did things like that, then she would believe me."

"Thank you, your honor, that will be all," Mrs. Brown said.

"Thank you, Mrs. Brown. We will continue this case in a week's time." And he hit the gravel.

There was a murmur of voices as everybody began standing up.

Was it over? Were they done for the day?

Wirt stood up and quickly shuffled out, looking for Greg and for his father. But he was careful, he didn't want to accidentally bump into Jonathan. No, if he did, he would die.

"Wirt!"

He recognized his dad's voice, and he spun around to see his dad and Greg. He rushed towards them, his hands still shaking.

"You did good," Stephen said, "It's okay, shake it off."

"Can we go now?"

"Not yet. Olivia wants to talk to us really quick."

They all waited, Greg wrapped himself around Wirt's leg. Then, cutting through the crowd, Olivia came rushing out with Mercedes behind her.

Olivia began first. "Okay, Wirt, you did a good job speaking up there-"

Mercedes cut in. However, she seemed much less enthusiastic as she solemnly told him the next thing. "But this case isn't looking very much in your favor."

"I know," Wirt muttered.

"They have more evidence against you than they have against your stepfather. And if things continue like this, then..." She stopped.

 _Just say it_ , Wirt said with his eyes.

"Then we have more of a chance of losing this case."

He'd already known it, but hearing it hit him even harder.

Mercedes seemed a little annoyed, and she turned to Olivia. "I need to go." And then she nodded to Stephen and Wirt. "Have a good day." She walked off, leaving Wirt to feel like a terrible person.

"I'll call you if anything comes up," Olivia told them. "Maybe I can try to find more leads or evidence."

Wirt didn't reply, but he almost started crying when Olivia hugged him. "Everything will be okay," she told him. And with that, she nodded them off and left.

Wirt wiped the tears from his eyes.

He knew it would be like this. There was a reason he'd always known he couldn't tell. And it's because he'd never win, there was no way out.

"Come on, let's go home." Stephen said, nudging them forward. By now, there weren't as many people in the corridor.

As they exited the building, Wirt concluded that if he couldn't find a way out on his own, if he couldn't kill himself, if he couldn't convince a jury with what evidence they had...

Then he'd have to get evidence himself.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**I don't realize we are being followed until well after the moon is high in the sky and almost invisible through the tops of the trees. It is nearly pitch black, but we are guided by the light of the lantern.**

**Then I see it- the same shadow as before, dash from one tree to the other. But this time, I register the two glowing orbs. The Beast.**

**I glance warily around us, and Greg does the same, holding up the lantern, though I don't think he knows what the Beast looks like, or even that that's what I'm looking for at all. Where is he? Where is he coming from and where does he go?**

**I see nothing else, no more hints of his presence.**

**However, as I turn to continue on, a twig snaps behind us, and we gasp simultaneously.**

**As soon as we spin toward the noise, something wraps my neck. It tightens and presses into my skin, making it hard to breathe. But I recognize the feeling of rough, splintering bark.**

**He wraps his branchy fingers around my arm, and when I look down, his fingers are growing, wrapping my upper arm and elbow with branches-**

**I give a terrified battle cry, rear back my arm, the one holding the ax, and swing it downward, sticking it into the Beast's arm. He lets out a wretched holler, and his grip unwinds. "You _brat_! You'll regret that!"**

**I don't even bother re-equipping the ax. I swoop Greg up and bolt off, running for a good four minutes until my legs ache and tingle, my arms are tired and my lungs might collapse. Panting, I kneel down in the dirt, setting Greg to his feet.**

**"Are you okay?" I ask him.**

**But when I look at him, he's tense, trembling, and wide-eyed. He looks like he just saw a corpse, but when I turn, it's nothing but trees, a sight typical of the Unknown, nothing new or out of the ordinary. I look back to him, and he still looks completely shell-shocked.**

**"Greg, what's the matter?"**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Wirt awoke to the sound of Greg crying out his name with pure terror in his voice. "Wirt! _Wirt_!"

The digital clock beside his bed read 3:28 AM. He frantically stood up and approached Greg's side of the room, sitting in his bed and running a hand through his hair. "Shh, it's okay, it's okay, I'm here."

Greg bolted upward, gripping Wirt's arm.

"I saw him, I saw it," He murmured, his eyes glazed over. It was like he wasn't even there. "He has faces all over him, they're crying, they're crying."

"Greg?" Wirt became genuinely scared, pulling Greg in his lap. But Greg pushed him away, and looked up at his brother's face with wild, tear-filled eyes.

"They're crying, they're scared! He hurt them!"

"Who? What are you talking about?" The Beast?

"He hurt them!" Greg continued babbling, though much louder. "He hurt them! He hurt them! He hurt them!"

It took five minutes of constant, soft shooshing and rocking Greg back and forth to make him stop his ranting and snap back to the present. But it took much longer to put him back asleep.

Even after it had all calmed down and Wirt climbed into his bed, however, Greg's voice didn't stop repeating itself in Wirt's head.

_He hurt them! He hurt them!_

_He hurt them!_


	23. A Drill, A Saw, and a Shoebox

Following Greg's fit just a few hours earlier, Wirt was too groggy to sit up and face the day ahead. It wasn't nearly as miserable as going to court, but he really didn't want to go to school.

Then, just as he hit the snooze button on his alarm clock, he remembered his plan. The one he'd come up with on the car ride back to his dad's house after court.

It was a dangerous plan, no doubt about it. But it needed to be done to save himself and to save Greg.

Suddenly determined, he sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, quickly standing up and throwing on his clothes- jeans, a blue plaid, hooded, wool coat, and his shoes.

He knelt down next to his bed and opened his backpack. Hastily, he began taking out everything - his books, notebooks, and his binder - and tucked them under his bed where his dad wouldn't find them. Then he zipped shut his now empty backpack, and slung it over his shoulder. There. Now he was ready.

As he left his room, he could hear his dad and Greg.

"My mom puts milk in her scrambled eggs."

His dad laughed half-heartedly. "So I've heard." There was a click, and the hum of the stove's burner seized.

Wirt sat down at the table. "G'morning."

"Looks like somebody decided to wake up," Greg said, the same way their mother would say to him on the weekends.

"Yeah, I thought you'd be in bed longer," Stephen agreed, divvying up the plates with eggs and bacon.

"Longer?" Wirt asked. "Wouldn't you've woken me up for school?"

Stephen shrugged. "I would've let you stay home if you wanted to."

Wirt didn't know how to reply. Especially because he wasn't going to school today. His dad didn't need to know that though.

 _Okay_ , he began sorting in his mind as his breakfast plate was set down in front of him. _It's Wednesday. Mom works an eight-to-five shift, Jonathan works five-to-noon. That gives me four hours._ More than enough time.

Wirt looked up, and realized his dad wasn't eating. Instead, he was just staring at him. Not in a blank or leery way, but in a guilty way.

It made him uneasy.

His dad blinked out of his trance, and then quickly shook his head. "Sorry, sorry, just thinking." He looked down and began gathering food onto his fork in a rushed manner.

He winced. His dad was always like that these days.

He understood why he felt so bad, but it was just a little unnerving and he couldn't shake off how uncomfortable it made him.

They ate in silence, and once they were finished, Stephen stacked their plates in the sink. "Alright, let's get a move-on." He picked up his keys.

Wirt and Greg followed Stephen outside to the car, and they all packed in like sardines. Shivering, cold sardines. It was always this cold after a rainy night.

Stephen dropped Greg off first, as his school began earlier than Wirt's.

He dropped Wirt off second, at the corner closest to his school, which he always did to avoid getting caught up in high school parking lot traffic.

Before leaving the car, he glanced at the time on the car's radio. _7:52. Mom leaves at 7:45, she'll be gone by now_ , he noted. Then he opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

"Have a good day, I'll see you later."

"Yeah, see you later, bye, dad."

He shut the car door and began walking in the direction of his school, until the sound of his dad's car leaving was no longer in earshot.

Then he turned, and walked in the opposite direction.

He walked the three blocks, down familiar streets and past familiar houses.

Then it came into sight.

His mom's house. The modest, beige house with the steps leading up to the porch and a door the same color as the rest of the house.

The driveway was empty, as he'd expected.

He took a deep breath and kept a cautious eye and ear out as he walked up the steps and approached the front door.

With his foot, he lifted up the 'WELCOME' mat, and it was still there. The spare key that was rarely used.

He picked it up and unlocked the front door, his hands sweaty and shaking, as if unlocking the door was the same as disengaging a bomb.

The locked clicked, and his heart pounded as he pushed the door open.

The house hadn't changed one bit.

He shut the door behind him without looking at it.

Slowly, he stepped through and glanced inside the living room.

Still the same.

He glanced into the kitchen.

The same.

Everything was the same.

But seeing it now, seeing it empty, especially when he wasn't supposed to be inside it, made it feel like a ghost town.

And every bit of fear, anxiety, and disgust, every single memory, lingered about like a tortured spirit.

He shook his head and took a deep breath.

 _No, Wirt_ , he reprimanded himself, _don't lose yourself now._

He climbed up the steps to his bedroom and opened the door.

It appeared untouched.

He'd heard stories of people who refused to change or alter their deceased child's bedroom, but still sat and cried in them.

He wasn't dead, obviously, but a small part of him wondered if his mother did that.

Did she ever doubt herself? Did she ever question her quality as a parent? Did she ever wonder if he really was telling the truth?

He left the room and shut the door. He needed to stop reminiscing and overthinking and wondering pointless things. He had a task at hand.

In his head, he began a short list.

_Rooms to check : Mom and Jonathan's room, Jonathan's "storage room" (formerly the nursery before Greg turned three), the office, and the garage._

He adjusted the backpack over his shoulders and entered the master bedroom.

Upon seeing the bed, he tensed, involuntarily and suddenly waiting with dread to be grabbed and pulled further into the room. _Stop it, stop it, nobody's here, you're fine._ He urged his legs to step in further.

Taking a deep breath, he officially began his search. He pulled open dresser drawers. He felt around under clothes for anything that might be hidden. He tapped the ground with his foot to check for any loose floorboards. He lifted the mattress. He dug through the pillow cases. He searched through the closet.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

His heart sunk. What if didn't find anything anywhere in this house? What if this was completely pointless?

Why would Jonathan leave any trace of what he did? He was too smart for that.

Besides, it wasn't like a murder case. It wasn't as though he'd find blood, or a body (or part of one), or a weapon. Jonathan was the weapon. Wirt was the crime scene, _the body_.

What if he was just so desperate to make it all stop that he convinced himself that his salvation would be lying around here somewhere?

_No, stop, shut up and stop being a paranoid little moron and don't think like that. You still have three more rooms to go._

He cringed at his own inner monologue and continued on, toward Jonathan's "storage room."

If you walked inside, the only hint that it used to be Greg's nursery was the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, that Jonathan hadn't bothered to remove.

The room, once with purple walls, a soft, blue rug, a crib, a dresser, and a toybox, now appeared quite large with its lack of furniture. The walls were now just covered with wall paper that looked like wood. They'd put in red carpet, which was covered up with a large brown rug. On the wall was a full-length mirror, and a large plug-in fan off to the side next to the closet. And in the corner next to the closet, Jonathan kept his guitar case, which appeared dusty due to lack of use. Which made sense, considering Wirt couldn't remember the last time he'd ever heard Jonathan play it.

Actually, yes he could. It was so long ago, it was before the abuse even started.

Jonathan would play it for Wirt's mother, way back when they were still only friends. Wirt remembered his mom had been sad most of the time back then. He'd been six, and his mother and father had been newly divorced for some unknown reason. But when Jonathan stepped in, it was made very clear that his mother enjoyed his company. When Jonathan played the guitar, it made her happy, and it had made Wirt happy to see his mother happy. So he liked Jonathan for a little while, even though he was always puzzled as to where this man had come from and how his mother had met him.

Before his parents divorced, he'd only seen Jonathan a few times, and he hadn't even known his name. He remembered his mother would sometimes drop Wirt off at home after school, and Jonathan would be in the front seat. After dropping Wirt off at home, she'd go off somewhere with Jonathan and come back hours later.

Now, at age 15, Wirt suddenly wondered if she'd been having an affair with him. Was that why his parents divorced? Was that why his dad never liked Jonathan?

Was that why his dad tried to keep him away from Jonathan for some time?

He looked at the guitar case, suddenly wondering if there was something inside.

He set it on the floor, undid the latches, and, holding his breath, opened it up like a chest.

Just an ordinary old guitar. It was missing a string, right near the middle, and it hadn't been played in almost a decade.

With a sigh, he shut it and latched it back up. Nothing.

He squinted scornfully at himself. Why would the answers be tossed lazily inside an easily accessible guitar case?

He set it back up against the wall, but unlike before, he didn't feel hopeless.

Just from seeing the old guitar case, he'd been able to hypothesize something about his mother in the past, and the mystery couldn't just stop there. It only made him more determined. There had to be something around here.

_Anything._

He tried to go back to the day the room had been renovated. That day wasn't too difficult to think about, because he recalled that Jonathan had been too exhausted to do anything to him that night.

He remembered Jonathan had made him help haul in paint, big new rolls of red carpet, the rug, and the full length mirror.

Hours later when his mother wasn't there, after the carpets were finished being installed, Wirt had been sitting on the living room couch when he Jonathan bring in a drill, a saw, and a shoebox.

_A drill, a saw, and a shoebox._

Wirt looked up at the room. Obviously, Jonathan had needed the drill to put screws into things, and there were plenty of things he would need screws for. The doorknob, hooks, maybe to hang the clock above the window.

But the saw?

He wouldn't have needed the saw for anything. Nothing had been cut, or at least, nothing that he could see.

Something _hidden_.

He began searching the closet, for signs of anything that had been drastically cut.

There was nothing in the closet, no holes, no cuts, no loose floorboards.

He left the closet, and kept scanning the room.

He spun in a slow circle, thoroughly looking at every wall to see if something looked off.

But it looked all the same.

He stopped and looked at the full length mirror.

It covered a large part of the wall.

Wirt set his backpack down onto the floor and stepped toward the mirror.

It had screws attaching it to the wall.

If he could take it off...

He ran out of the room towards the garage, and began looking for the drill.

It was hanging on a hook next to a wall full of screwdrivers. He took it down, and bolted back into the storage room.

His hands were shaking with anticipation as he stuck the drill into the screws of the mirror and loosened them, one by one.

They fell to the floor, and once all six of them were undone, he moved the mirror and-

 _Bam_.

A hole in the wall, and inside it...

_A shoebox._

He carefully steadied the mirror against the wall, and reached into the opening.

The shoebox felt forbidden in his hand, and he knew in his gut it was something. Something he wasn't supposed to find, something _nobody_ was supposed to find.

He sat down on the floor, and pulled off the lid.

There was a thick, full envelope, and a wad of photographs held together by a rubber band.

He removed the band and flipped through the photographs.

They were all different pictures of same girl, ranging from maybe age seven to thirteen (give or take a couple years). They appeared innocent, ranging from smiling to annoyed at the camera on her. Wirt didn't know who she was, but she shared the same hair color and some facial features with Jonathan.

Did Jonathan have a daughter? Did Wirt have a stepsister he didn't know?

He flipped the photographs over, and they all had dates and the same name written down: Alison Harton.

She shared Jonathan's last name, but the dates went all the way back to the eighties and early nineties. So whoever this was couldn't be Jonathan's daughter.

...Jonathan's sister...?

 _Yes!_ Wirt vaguely remembered Jonathan's mother telling him about Jonathan's siblings when he was younger, on Halloween. Jonathan had had a sister, and a brother, but that brother was no longer alive. He had died young.

The most recent picture was dated August of 2002. The girl, Alison, wasn't smiling, standing with Jonathan, their mother, and a few others, perhaps some family members or friends. On the back, there was an address, located in a city that was within their county.

He folded that picture up and stuffed it in his pocket. It might be useful.

He set the photographs into the box and picked up the envelope.

It was sealed up, and he sloppily tore off the top.

Inside, there were even more photographs.

But these ones were not innocent. Not at _all_.

There was a child on each one, children Wirt didn't know. There were three or four photographs per child, but they all had one thing in common.

Each child was completely nude, in sickening positions with either crying or terrified facial expressions.

Wirt's face turned a pale, sickly green.

There had been so many children. _So many_ more children.

Wirt hadn't been the first. Jonathan had abused so many before him and his brother.

He looked at the backs of the photographs. There were two letters on each one, and there were dates.

_CR - 3. 17. 95; MS - 5. 06. 95; KM - 1. 22. 96._

There were so many dates. Between 2001 and 2006, there'd been almost two for each month, but after January 2007, there were none, until...

_WW - 9. 08. 08._

He recognized his initials. He recognized the date of Sara's sister's funeral. And he remembered what happened after the funeral. A guy Jonathan called Franky, the garage, the camera-

He didn't need to turn the pictures over to know exactly what they were.

He felt like he might throw up.

But at least he knew now that the letters were the children's initials, and the date was the day the photographs had been taken.

He tucked the pictures back where he'd found them, only for his eyes to latch onto another set of photographs, dated to just a week previous of the pictures of him.

_JE - 9. 01. 08._

His first day of third grade. Sara hadn't come to school for three days after that date.

He prayed to God that _JE_ didn't mean...

He flipped those photographs over, keeping his hand over the bottom half to avoid seeing anything from the neck down.

Sure enough, to his dread, the face was too familiar. He felt so sick seeing it.

 _JE_. Josie Evans.

Sara's little sister.

Jonathan had taken her and done things to her too.

And then he murdered her afterward.

_Murdered._

Wirt suddenly wondered with horror, how many of the children in the pictures were even still _alive_?

Horror aside, however, he knew this was the key.

If he could present this to the jury, they'd know everything.

 _EVERYTHING_.

In a flurry of fear, shock, horror, and anticipation, he stuffed the photographs back into the envelope, set them back into the box, put the lid back on, and shoved the box into his backpack.

He began zipping his backpack up, ready to screw the mirror back into the wall and erase every bit of evidence that he'd had been there.

Then, he heard it, and the blood drained from his face. His determination, the horrified pride in his accomplishment, dissolved quickly.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway of his mom's house. His mom's house which he had snuck into.

He frantically peeked through the blinds of the window, and he felt his whole world begin to crumble when he saw which car it was.

It was _Jonathan's_ car.


	24. Back Lot

_No, no, no, no, no._

This wasn't happening, this _couldn't_ be happening.

Wirt looked up at the clock above the window. It was only 9:04. What was Jonathan doing back already?!

He panicked, knowing he had no time to screw the mirror back in without Jonathan hearing. Now they would know somebody had intruded their house, he would get into huge trouble. Jonathan would find the shoebox missing, and he'd most likely know exactly who had been there.

He wanted to cry as his world crumbled around him. He had to act fast. He had to get out now.

He stood up, standing away from the window so his silhouette couldn't be seen from outside.

When Jonathan entered the front door, Wirt could hear him mutter to himself with confusion.

And then he remembered that he hadn't re-locked the front door when sneaking in. _Shit_.

He heard Jonathan sigh, and he felt a little relieved. _He probably just thinks Mom forgot to lock it on her way out_.

As Wirt put his backpack on and tip-toed toward the window, he nervously wondered what Jonathan would do when he found the mirror unscrewed and the shoebox gone.

Although, even if he knew it had been Wirt, there wasn't anything he could do about it. He couldn't tell Wirt's mom, or then she'd inquire about the hole in the wall, and what interest Wirt had with what was behind the mirror. And then he wouldn't be able to tell her about what was inside the hole in the wall, and his refusal to tell her might make her suspicious.

Jonathan would be defeated.

Just as long as Wirt could sneak back out without being caught, he'd win. He was almost giddy, imagining the blood draining from Jonathan's face as he handed the judge the shoebox.

The window made a creak as Wirt tried to open it, and he cringed, clenching his fist and standing very still.

But he couldn't hear Jonathan react, so he slowly continued opening the window, silently praying it wouldn't make another sound.

It did, however. And this time, Jonathan did react.

"Hello?" Wirt heard him call out.

There went all hope of leaving without drawing attention to himself.

Footsteps came closer to the hall, and Wirt knew Jonathan would open the door and find him.

So he bolted toward the door and locked it.

That way, even if Jonathan knew somebody was in there, he'd likely not be able to break down the door fast enough. He'd have to run to a drawer or the bathroom to find a bobby pin or something of the sort to pick the lock, giving Wirt enough time to open the window, hop out, and make a mad dash for it and hide.

Jonathan acted in flurry of rage, bolting toward the door and slamming on it. "Open the damn door or I'll call the cops!"

Jonathan's booming, shouting voice made Wirt absolutely terrified. But what terrified him even more was that he could already hear Jonathan picking the lock, as if he'd already had a bobby pin or something in his pocket.

The window was only open halfway, which wasn't much room. But it was just enough room for him if he tossed his backpack out first. He knew Jonathan wouldn't be able to fit through it.

He pulled his backpack off and tossed it outside. Then he slipped out head first, worming his way out the window with his hands out in front of him so he didn't eat dirt. He had just gotten to his feet and pulled his backpack onto one shoulder when the door opened. Jonathan spotted him, and spotted the mirror as well, but there was no way he could make a leap at Wirt through the window.

Wirt began running, but he could hear Jonathan bellow at him through the window. "I'll get you, you little _shit_!"

Wirt's shoes pounded the cement. He bolted up the sidewalk, able to hear Jonathan in hot pursuit several yards behind him. But Jonathan was faster and stronger, and Wirt knew that if he didn't do something, Jonathan would catch up to him. He hit a crosswalk at a green light, counting down. _5, 4, 3..._

He raced across anyway, forcing a car to screech to a halt and honk its horn. He continued running, while Jonathan was stuck across the street at a red light. Jonathan ran down the sidewalk parallel to the sidewalk Wirt was running on, and they quickly came across another crosswalk.

Wirt turned to avoid having to cross the street again, and many small establishments came into view. There was a gas station, a café, a thrift store.

He turned after hitting another crosswalk, toward the downtown area. None of the shops opened until around ten, so he couldn't hide in any of them.

But on the bright side, he was losing Jonathan, he couldn't hear or see him anymore.

He crossed at the next crosswalk, making his way across the street to the right sidewalk, still running for dear life.

Then he heard Jonathan again. He'd have to turn, or Jonathan would catch up to him. He crossed the empty street and turned.

He came across a large, empty parking lot, behind a few other, larger buildings.

Suddenly, he froze, realizing where he was.

_The amount of people lessened, and at the end of the area was a bar, a club, and a bowling alley. Jonathan turned toward the back lots, where no one roamed and streetlights flickered._

He didn't hear the rapid footsteps behind him until it was too late.

He was knocked to the rough concrete and flipped onto his back.

Jonathan loomed above him and held Wirt down with a shoe to his throat, a look of pure adrenaline and bloodlust in his eyes. He was breathing hard, and Wirt was too, out of pure exhaustion, but it didn't stop him from lashing out. He kicked and squirmed against Jonathan's foot.

But Jonathan would have none of it.

He growled and grabbed Wirt by the hair, and smashed Wirt's head back down against the ground. Wirt cried out, but Jonathan did it again and again, to the back and side of his head, until Wirt's head pounded and he felt too dizzy to keep fighting.

He just wanted to die now. Especially as Jonathan grabbed his arm and pulled his backpack off of him.

Wirt stared numbly at a dumpster a few feet away as Jonathan unzipped his backpack and pulled out the shoebox, letting out deep, throaty laughter.

Wirt just wanted to die. He was losing everything. He wondered if Jonathan would kill him and ditch his body in that dumpster.

Jonathan took his foot off of him and lifted him up by the front of his coat, pulling his face so close to Wirt's, Wirt could feel his hot breath on his cheek as he kept facing in the direction of the garbage can.

"Once this trial is over, I will murder you. And you know damn well that I can."

He can and he will. He'll do it in the blink of an eye.

I'll be just like Josie.

And, just like Sara, Greg will be grieving and alone.

The thought of Greg made him cry, but at this point, he didn't care if Jonathan saw.

He'd already seen Wirt cry thousands of times before.

Jonathan dropped Wirt back to the concrete, tossed the empty backpack at him, and, still breathing heavily with the shoebox under his arm, left Wirt lying alone in the middle of the empty back lot.

Once Jonathan was gone, Wirt sat up, disoriented and sick to the pit of his stomach. He scoot back until his back hit a brick wall, and he brought his knees to his chest.

Something warm slid down his face, and he thought it was sweat, until he lightly touched it and looked at his fingers.

It was blood, from where Jonathan had beaten his head against the pavement.

He lie his head down on his knees.

He'd wanted to die plenty of times in the past.

This time, however, it would be much different.

This time, he knew his time would come soon.

Very, very soon.


	25. No Hospital

Wirt knew he couldn't just sit in the lot and brood forever.

But he had no idea where to go.

He couldn't go home. It was much too early, and he couldn't even imagine how his dad would react if he came home early with blood dripping down his face.

He couldn't go to school, or they'd call his dad.

The hospital?

No, they'd also call his dad, and then they'd ask what had happened to his head, and he was too tired to come up with a convincing lie.

He sighed. Maybe he should just go home. It wasn't as though his dad could force the truth out of him. And he craved the feeling of his bed. He wanted to lay down and go to sleep, forever maybe.

He stood up, tugged his hood down over his head, and pulled on his backpack.

With his glance downward, he made his way toward his dad's house, dreading every step he took down the street.

He still felt dizzy, and the more he walked, the more his head began pounding again.

As he walked down the familiar street toward his dad's, he began shaking and feeling weak with each step, until finally, his legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees.

His breath was unsteady, and he wondered if he was going to die.

 _No, that's dumb._ He wouldn't die over hitting his head. It wasn't as if his skull had been fractured. He couldn't remember hearing his skull crack, and he thought that actually cracking his skull would have hurt a hell of a lot more. He'd likely already be dead if his skull had been broken.

Besides, he wasn't bleeding much anymore. The blood had become sticky and dried up on his face. He winced at the thought of what his hair looked like, all matted with dried blood.

He tried to get back to his feet, when suddenly, a car pulled up next to him.

He couldn't see the car since the hood was covering the sides of his face, but he could only imagine that Jonathan had come back after him with a rifle or something.

He tried to get up and start running, but he only fell back down.

Hopeless, he didn't try to get back up. He just looked up slightly and peeked at the car.

It wasn't Jonathan's.

It was...

"Wirt?" Sara called out toward him as she got out the driver's side of the car.

He looked up at her, and she rushed to his side.

She forcibly pulled down his hood. "Wirt, oh my god."

It must have been quite the sight, all that dried blood clinging to the sides of his head and around the edges of his hairline.

"What _happened?_ " Sara demanded frantically, but he couldn't find his voice. He just stared at her.

It felt like forever since he'd last seen her.

He didn't realize it until now, but she was the only one he wanted to see and be around.

His loving, caring best friend.

He suddenly felt guilty for giving her the cold shoulder the last time he saw her.

Now he wanted and needed her more than ever.

She stood up and took his hands, pulling him to his feet and helping him become steady.

"Come on, let's go, I've got you."

She opened the passenger door and helped him inside. "There we go."

She shut Wirt's door and made her way to the driver's side to get back in.

She turned the car back on after closing her door, and pulled away from the sidewalk. She drove up the street, in the opposite direction of his dad's house.

"Get my phone out of the glove box, we'll call your dad, and I'll take you to the emergency room-"

He looked up at her with fear in his eyes. "No!" He finally managed in a begging voice.

Sara was almost startled, and she gave him a quick, concerned glance before averting her eyes back to the road. "Why not?"

"My dad can't see me like this, he thinks I'm at school right now."

"Wirt, you're _bleeding_ from your _head_ , what if you have a concussion or a facture or something?"

"I'm fine, trust me." He began begging. "Please don't take me to the hospital, Sara."

She sighed, stopping the car at a red light.

"Well, my dad's not home. We can go to my house, if you want."

Wirt didn't have to think about it for even a split second. "Can we?"

With a small, sad smile, Sara nodded. "But first, I need to pick up something to eat. I'm starving, and there's nothing quick or microwaveable at the house."

Wirt couldn't help but give a tiny smile. He enjoyed hearing her talk, it calmed him. It put him under the delusion that everything would be okay. He knew everything was falling apart, but Sara could make him think otherwise, even if for just a little while.

"So what are you doing out of school?" he asked her.

She hummed and shrugged. "Just felt like ditching. Band is stressing me out a little. Our marching coach- you remember him, right?"

"Weird guy named Gordon or something?"

"Yeah, him. Well, he quit, or he was fired or something, I don't know, Mr. Tomkins won't tell us. But there's a rumor going around he had a drinking problem, and he came to practice intoxicated."

"Wow."

"Yeah, it wouldn't surprise me though, he was weird. Anyway, now Mr. Tomkins has to find another marching coach, and he's stressed over that because marching coaches cost a lot. Now all the stress from not having a marching coach and the band having only about two thousand dollars in funds is getting to everybody- it's just a nasty situation all around."

"Sure sounds like it."

Sara pulled into the drive-thru of Grilly's. "Want anything?"

Wirt shook his head. "No, thank you."

While Sara ordered, Wirt pulled his hood back over his head. He didn't want the cashier to see the blood on his face when Sara pulled up next to the window.

After paying and receiving her food, Sara left the parking lot and began back on their way to her house.

She pulled into the empty driveway, shut off the car, and looked up at Wirt. "Do you need help getting out?"

Wirt shook his head. "No, I'm fine."

That was partially the truth. He was shaking, and his head began pulsing as soon as he stood up. But he was fine walking into the house on his own.

Sara went immediately into the kitchen and set the bags of food onto the counter. When she returned, she set her hand on Wirt's back. "Let's go into the bathroom, I'll help you clean up."

Wirt obliged, letting her lead him into the bathroom. She advised him to sit down on the closed toilet, and he watched as she began pulling gauze and rubbing alcohol out from under the sink, and soaking a dark green hand towel under the warm tap water.

She raised his head with a gentle finger under his chin, and began wiping away the dried blood caked to the side of his head and around his hairline. The whole time, he just stared at her face. When she noticed, she smiled at him, and he felt his cheeks grow warm.

Once the blood was wiped away, she began looking at his scalp, using her fingers to move his hair out of the way.

He hissed suddenly, as she came nearer to where his head had been beaten against the asphalt. The skin there was raw, and it stung badly upon contact.

"Sorry, sorry," she murmured, looking at the spot with furrowed eyebrows.

Without a word, she picked up the gauze, soaked it in rubbing alcohol, and told Wirt, "This might burn a little, I'm sorry."

And as she dabbed at the abrasions on his scalp, it did burn, but, just like she'd said, only a little. Wirt bit back the pain, and after a few minutes, she was done.

"I'm almost finished, I promise."

She picked up the green towel again, and, very carefully and with only a little pressure, scrubbed at the small, blood-matted pieces of hair, until he looked almost good as new.

She smiled at her work, Wirt looked clean and inviolate now.

Then her smile fell, and with a soft, pitiful expression, she asked the same question from earlier.

"Wirt, what happened?"

He looked down shamefully, and after a few failed attempts, he managed to look back up and tell her, "I tried to sneak into my mom's house and get evidence myself. But..." He stopped.

"But what?"

Wirt answered after a shaky breath. "He found me."

Sara was almost afraid to ask the next question. "Wh-what did he do?"

"I tried to run, but he chased me, all the way out of the neighborhood, and to this... this back lot near the bowling alley." He left out the significant detail about what had happened in that same lot so many years ago, and that the only reason Jonathan had caught up to him was because he'd freaked out and stopped upon realizing where he was. "And then he... he took the evidence."

"And what happened to your head?"

Wirt gulped. "He beat it against the concrete."

Sara physically flinched, and wrapped her arms around him.

"Sara?" He said.

She pulled away from him, but kept her arms on his shoulders. "Yeah?"

He wanted to tell her what he'd found. He wanted to tell her about the pictures...

And he wanted to tell her about Josie, that her death wasn't an accident, she didn't hit her head on the rocks while falling into the river. Jonathan had assaulted her, and then killed her, and most likely ditched her body in the river.

But with the shake of his head, Wirt decided against it.

"Never mind."

Sara looked like she wanted to prod him into telling her, but she didn't. She just gave a soft "okay" and got up to put away the medical supplies she'd used.

"Thank you," he told her, fumbling with his fingers.

She smiled at him. "Anytime."

Once she finished setting away the supplies into their proper drawers and cabinets, she left the bathroom, Wirt following after. She retrieved her burger from the counter and sat down on the recliner in the living room while Wirt lie down on the couch to rest his still aching (albeit still recovering) head.

He stared up at the ceiling, pondering whether or not he should fall asleep at Sara's. He felt a little impolite doing so.

_Then._

A thought popped into his head, out of thin air, like a fly had just landed on him.

It was enough to make him sit up quickly and ignore the rush of pain that rose to his head by doing so. Sara looked up at him with confusion.

He dug through his pockets, and pulled out the one piece of evidence he'd forgotten he had.

It was a piece of the puzzle that could possibly help him.

The picture of Alison, and the address on the back.

He wondered to where the address led, but he suspected it led to Alison.

Maybe she knew things.

Maybe she could help him.

"Sara?" Wirt began. She stopped chewing.

He held up the address and asked,

"Can you drive me here?"


	26. My Dead Brother

" _Turn right in 0.25 miles_."

Sara turned down the unfamiliar street, into a neighborhood of small houses surrounded by similar white picket fences.

Wirt watched eagerly outside the passenger window as the numbers shrunk from _1000_ to _900, 800_. After a couple of turns, Sara slowed to a stop in front of a house with the number _439_ painted to the curb.

"You have reached your destination."

Both Wirt and Sara stared at the house. It appeared as pleasant as the ones surrounding it. It was painted a welcoming light blue, the door was painted red, and there was a little bench out on the front porch with a flower pot next to it. There was a soccer ball on the lawn and a red bicycle lying on its side in the driveway next to a silver minivan.

Wirt pulled out the photograph of Alison. She looked to be at least twenty in the photograph. If that was 2002, then she'd likely be at least thirty-three now. So it was possible she was a mother now, and the bike and soccer ball belonged to her child.

That is, Wirt mused with a knot in his stomach, if she was still alive.

"Be careful, okay?"

Wirt nodded. "I'm taking a bus back home afterward."

Sara raised a brow and shook her head. "No, I'm dropping you off."

"You're staying?"

"Well, _duh_." She said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm not leaving you here when you're visiting the house of somebody you don't even know. I'm staying right out here."

"But what if it takes too long?"

"I can wait."

Wirt's expression softened, and a small smile peeked at his lips. As he exited the car, he internally kicked himself for not expressing his gratitude, contemplating whether or not to go back to hug and thank her.

He vowed to do so later.

He approached the front door, full of doubt and anxiety. But he took a deep breath, raised a fist, and rapped his knuckled against the door.

For several moments, there was no answer. His heart began to sink, and his hope of having any small trace of evidence began to drain.

Then, the door opened, and a friendly-looking man with blond hair and a mug of coffee in his hand greeted him with a perplexed smile. "Can I help you?" he said.

Wirt didn't know what to say at first. Should he introduce himself? Ask if he could come in?

When he realized how dumb he must have looked just silently standing there, he stammered, "Um-" His voice cracked and he cringed. "I-Is Alison there?"

The man nodded, and he turned around and called back into the house, "Al! The door!"

Footsteps approached, and she came into view, holding a baby with sandy-colored locks of hair and a pacifier in his/her mouth.

It was surreal, seeing Alison in person. It felt as if he'd been watching a movie and one of the characters had just come out of the television screen.

The man walked away, and Alison came closer, appearing perplexed. "Um, can I help you?"

Again, Wirt was speechless.

But he got ahold of himself and cleared his throat. "D-do you know Jonathan Harton?" He asked, and just as he did, a small hint of distress pricked at Alison's expression.

Wirt took this as a 'yes,' and he continued. "My name's Wirt. I-I'm his stepson."

Alison looked him up and down, and Wirt was almost sure she was going to shut the door in his face.

He continued. "I-I- he's in court, there's a trial against him. Can I talk to you?"

"How did you find me?" She asked with the suspicious squint of her eyes.

Wirt held up the photograph, adding with desparation in his voice, "Please, I need your help."

After a long pause and a sigh, Alison stepped to the side, allowing Wirt to enter the house.

She motioned to the living room couch, insisting that he sit down. She sat on the sofa across from him, stroking her baby's face and coaxing him/her to sleep.

"So what's the deal?" Alison asked, semi-impatiently. She clutched her baby close to her chest in what seemed like paranoia.

"I-I... I wanted to know if you knew anything about him."

With a squint of her eyes, she muttered, "Depends, I know lots of things about him."

"Like what?" Wirt urged.

"What do you need to know?"

Wirt gulped. "He abused me and my younger brother."

Alison mumbled a curse to herself, as if that's not the answer she wanted. "How?"

In a small voice, Wirt replied, "All ways."

She looked Wirt up and down, and sighed. "Okay, I'll tell you, but let me tell you something right off the bat. If you expect me to go to court and testify, there is no way."

Wirt's heart fell.

"You see that picture you have?" - Wirt nodded - "The day after that picture was taken, I vowed never to see my brother again. I have not seen him since that day, and I'm determined to keep it like that, okay?"

"...okay."

Alison swallowed and took a deep breath. "Jonathan sexually abused me from the time I was five and he was eleven. We used to have a babysitter, but he was fired. I never found out why he was fired. But for as long as I could remember, the babysitter would lock me and my baby brother Joseph in my room with a video and some toys. We'd be in there for hours, while Jonathan was with him in the garage. He told us that Jonathan was helping fix his car, but he might have been molesting him. Maybe that's why Jonathan became what he did.

"Anyway, instead of hiring another sitter, my mom decided Jonathan was old enough to babysit us on his own. So our baby brother and I were left alone with him while our mom worked late. That's when Jonathan began abusing me.

"He did it for years, and he told me not to tell anybody. And for a long time, I didn't. Then Jonathan started inviting a friend of his from school. They met over a class project, and eventually, they became good friends. Even I befriended him, he was really nice to me and my mom treated him like her very own. I came to trust him, and five months into their friendship, when I was ten, I told him what Jonathan was doing. He believed me. But somehow, Jonathan found out I told, and I never saw his friend again after that. That was okay though, because we didn't see much of Jonathan after that either.

"The abuse stopped altogether when I was twelve, and he'd graduated high school, but six years later, Jonathan came to my 18th birthday.

"My mom was distracted at the time, making conversation with family friends. I went into the house to look for more cups, and Jonathan grabbed me and pulled me into his bedroom. He tried to rape me, but before he could even unbutton my dress, our brother, Joseph, who was only fourteen at the time, walked into the room.

"He tried to run out and tell our mom, but Jonathan threatened to kill him if he told. Joseph didn't listen, and he tried running again, but Jonathan hit him. He gave him one last chance to promise he wouldn't tell our mom, but Joseph kept refusing.

"Jonathan started choking him and told him he would let go if he got in the front seat of his car. So Joseph did, and then Jonathan told me to get in the car too, specifically telling me to sit in the back behind the driver's seat. I was terrified out of my mind, so I went right away.

"He drove us out to this empty road surrounded by trees, sort of along the way to this county park in the mountains. And he turned and told Joseph..." Alison, who had been able to get through the beginning of story, suddenly began choking up. "He told our little brother, 'This-'" Tears came slipping out of her eyes, and Wirt, who'd been paralyzed by her story, suddenly felt like getting up and hugging her. But he didn't.

"He said, 'This is what happens when you don't promise to keep your mouth shut.'"

Alison sniffled. "And then he swerved to the right, directly into a tree, purposely so it only made impact with the passenger's seat.

"It killed Joseph immediately, and I heard myself screaming, but I don't remember meaning to scream. Jonathan climbed into the backseat, and he put his hand over my mouth, and told me if anybody else found out, he'd do the same thing to me. I thought he was going to rape me then, right there in the car next to Joseph's corpse, but he didn't. He got out and called our mom, putting on this... this _stupid_ scared-and-innocent act and telling her he'd crashed because a deer had run in front of the car.

"The next day, he disappeared again, for another few years. Then he came around for one of our mother's birthdays, which is when that picture was taken."

Wirt looked down at the photograph.

"That was the day Jonathan raped me," she said with only a slight flinch. "And I became pregnant with his child." Then she pointed at a picture frame on the coffee table separating them. It was of a boy with shaggy brown hair, who appeared somewhat younger than Wirt. "His name is Keenan. He doesn't know anything. He doesn't even know I had any brothers growing up. I've lied to him his whole life, telling him his real father died before he was born. My husband, Keith, knows everything that happened to me, and he promises not to tell Keenan anything."

Then a small, sad smiled spread across her face. "This one," she looked down at the baby in her arms, "is Brynn, and Keith is her real father. She's only two months old."

Alison ran her fingers through Brynn's hair, and Wirt smiled. "When did you meet Keith?" He asked.

"When Keenan was five. I was extremely protective of Keenan at the time, for obvious reasons, but Keith was loving and patient, and he understood why I was so protective, because of what happened to his daughter."

"What- I mean, if you don't mind me asking... what happened to her?"

"He used to have a daughter of his own, named Elliana. She was only two when she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. She died when she was three and a half, and a week following her death, his wife commited suicide."

"Wow," Wirt murmured.

They sat in silence, until Alison stood up and walked over to set Brynn into her crib.

Wirt hesitantly spoke up. "Um- so do you- I mean... do you know anybody who can testify?"

Alison shrugged and shook her head sadly. "My dead brother."

Wirt didn't know how to react to her casually bringing that up. "I-I'm sorry- I didn't mean-"

"Don't worry about it."

Wirt bit his lip and looked at his feet, afraid of saying something else that might somehow upset her. Then he looked up at her. "What about Jonathan's friend from high school, the one that you told?"

Alison shook her head. "I haven't seen him since I was ten, I don't know where he'd be."

"W-well... do you know his name?"

Alison looked up in thought. "I never learned his last name..." She looked back at Wirt with a nod of confirmation.

"But I know his first name was Stephen."


	27. Powerless

Stephen.

That could be anybody. His dad wasn't the only Stephen in their town. And besides, Alison never told him where they grew up, or where Jonathan had gone to high school. There were thousands of high schools in their state. And there had to be a few Stephens per school.

Jonathan having a friend named Stephen meant nothing.

It had to mean nothing...

Wirt really hoped it meant nothing.

After thanking Alison and exiting her house, he saw Sara's car was still parked right where she left it, and she was relieved to see Wirt come out unscathed.

He climbed in the front seat and shut the door, staring straight ahead. Sara had the car on and the volume on the radio to medium-low. When Wirt put on his seatbelt, she turned the key in the ignition to start the engine, but didn't start driving.

"Are you okay?" She asked, setting a hand on his arm with one hand on the steering wheel.

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Do you want me to take you back to your house?"

Wirt shook his head. "Not yet."

"My dad might be home already," Sara told him with a frown. "Are you sure?"

Wirt hummed with melancholy. "Yeah. I'll go back at 3:30, that's around when my dad usually expects me."

Sara nodded. "Okay." She shifted the car into drive, and began on her way back to her house.

xxxxxxx

After spending hours at Sara's house doing a whole lot of nothing (that is, besides watching TV with a box of pizza between them), Sara drove him home. She hugged him, assured him everything would be okay, and let him be on his way.

Wirt watched her drive off before opening the front door to his dad's house.

Upon entering, he heard shuffling around in the kitchen, and then it stopped. "Wirt, is that you?" His dad called out.

"Yeah," Wirt called back, dropping his backpack next to the coat hanger and heading for the dining room.

His dad was surrounded by paper grocery bags, and the fridge was wide-open as he restocked it with milk and a carton of butter.

"Where's Greg?" Wirt asked.

"Upstairs, he left school early and he's taking a nap."

Wirt frowned. "Why did he leave early?"

Stephen looked at Wirt sadly and seriously. "Your brother had a panic attack at school today."

Wirt flinched, and went silent for several minutes. Then he spoke back up.

"Dad?"

His dad looked back up at him. "Yeah?"

Wirt took a breath, preparing himself to drop the load. "Were you and Jonathan friends in high school?"

His dad froze for several moments, then he asked in a low voice, "Who told you that?"

That confirmed nearly all the fears and suspicions that had arisen in the past few hours. Little by little, things began lining up. "Alison told me." When his dad's grip on the handle of the fridge tightened and began to shake, Wirt added, "His little sister."

His dad was silent. Wirt knew it was because his dad was cornered. He knew that his dad was thinking that if he just didn't say anything, he would stop asking questions. But it only made Wirt egg him on more.

"She's a mom now." He continued. "She has a son and daughter. Her son is about twelve, and he was conceived without her consent." Wirt grit his teeth. "I bet you know who the dad is, right?"

His dad still didn't say anything, he just closed the fridge.

"You let it happen. You _knew_. You _let_ it happen, you let _everything_ happen." Wirt was trembling with his fists clenched. His dad put his face in his hands.

"I-" His dad's voice cracked, and Wirt knew he would cry. The times in the past he'd seen his dad cry had made him profoundly sad, but now, he only wanted to make his dad cry more. He wanted to keep hurting him, to make him feel weak.

To make him feel powerless.

"I bet you know about the other kids, right? All the ones he abused and killed?"

His dad let out a single sob, that would make anybody in a normal state of mind want to sob with him, but Wirt couldn't give a _flying fuck_.

"I want to know everything, dad. You owe me that much. Tell me everything he did, everything _you_ did."

Without a word, his dad began heading in his direction. Wirt thought his dad was going to hit him, and he flinched, but his dad only walked past him, down the hall.

Just when Wirt thought his dad wasn't coming back into the room, he returned with a composition journal and a yearbook.

"Sit down," his dad said, and Wirt begrudgingly did so, taking a seat at the dining table. His dad sat across from him.

He opened the yearbook, to a specific section of all the seniors. He pointed to a picture of a girl whom Wirt recognized as his mother in her teen years. She was so beautiful and had such a genuine smile that it made Wirt almost forget how she'd betrayed him.

"Jonathan, your mom, and I all went to high school together," his dad said, his voice clearly serious and ashamed. "I liked your mom a lot, but she liked him. She didn't know the kind of things he did, and I wanted to tell her so she'd stop liking him, but I was afraid she wouldn't believe me, or that she'd stop talking to both of us. So I didn't say anything.

"After Jon found out that his sister had told me about him touching her, he took it as an opportunity to take things further and make me do things, horrific things I'm not proud of. He began threatening me and forcing me to go on what he called _hunting trips_. And he'd..."

Similar to when Wirt had to talk about the abuse to his social worker and to his lawyer, and similar to when Alison began talking about what Jonathan did to their brother, his dad began stammering and having a difficult time continuing.

But he managed. "...he'd lure innocent little kids, around your brother's age, some even younger, into the woods behind the local playground, a-and... and he made me use his video camera to record them, while he..." His dad dropped his face in his hands as if trying to hide from seeing the memory, "sodomized them and made them do disgusting, degrading things.

"I hate thinking about that, especially now, because I can't..." His dad's voice cracked, and he began crying again. "I get so sick just thinking of what he did to those kids, and how he did them to you too.

"After he assaulted them, he'd turn off the camera. Then he'd kill the victims and make me help hide their bodies.

"This happened for a long, long time, until after senior graduation. He made me go with him to different cities, even on one occasion, to a different state, to avoid anybody he knew from finding out if he got caught. He did get caught, a few times, but he knew how to talk himself out of a court room.

"A while after senior graduation, I told him I couldn't do it anymore, and I... I smashed his camera and everything on it. He told me I'd pay for it."

He turned a page in the yearbook. The first things that popped out were two yearbook photos that had been scribbled completely over in black marker.

The names below them were Jonathan Harton and Franklin Ferdinand.

Wirt pointed to the scribbled over box of the latter-mentioned name. "Who's that?"

His dad looked a little uncomfortable. "Wirt, do you remember..." He paused, as though trying to remember something. "...what was it... I think it was a funeral..."

Wirt's stomach tightened and his face went slightly pale as he realized the name: Franklin. _Franky_.

"H-h-he took pictures..." Wirt mumbled, gripping onto the wood underneath his chair.

His dad nodded. "He took my place after I left Jonathan.

"After I left, I didn't see him for a long time, but he came back for a short time, back in 1999. I didn't see him when he returned, but... your mom did.

"Something happened then. I only heard about it from your mom after he left again. But his younger brother had died in a car accident."

"You mean Joseph?" Wirt asked.

His dad nodded. "And... the night after Jon's brother died... he and your mom..." he raised his fingers to make air quotes, "'hooked up', and... your mom became pregnant."

Wirt gave his dad an inquiring glance. "She had an abortion?"

His dad gulped and shook his head. "No."

"...a miscarriage?"

"Wirt, this was March 1999."

Then, it hit Wirt like a sack of rocks. But he waited for his dad to say it, just to make sure.

"Around nine months before your birthday."

Wirt frantically shook his head and gripped the front of his hair. " _No no no no no no_."

That meant Jonathan was his-

He wanted to take every knife in the kitchen and tear his own skin open.

Jonathan was constantly on him, _in_ him. Jonathan was a part of him, he was a _piece_ of Jonathan.

He felt sick. He envisioned the pizza he'd had at Sara's earlier as a goopy pile on the dining room floor.

He rocked back and forth, but his da- or... whoever was sitting in front of him... Stephen kept talking.

"He left again after that, and then a few weeks later, your mother came to me and confessed she was pregnant. I told her I'd help her raise the baby, even if it was _his_ -"

Wirt flinched. He knew his- Stephen hadn't meant it that way, but the way he said it felt absolutely degrading.

"I stayed with her, but even though I loved her, she didn't love me. I thought being there to help raise the baby would make her love me, and I think she tried to just because she felt she had to."

Wirt wasn't rocking back and forth as frantically anymore, but he was still shaking.

"Jonathan didn't come back until 2002, I think it was for his mother's birthday or something-"

"It was," Wirt muttered. "That was when Alison's son was conceived."

Stephen's face fell, and he looked solemn. Then he continued.

"That was the first time I'd seen him after leaving. He dropped in unannounced, and that's when he found out about you.

"You were only two, and I remember- vividly remember- you'd been asleep in your crib in the other room, and I desperately hoped you'd stay asleep the whole time he was there so he wouldn't find out about you. But you woke up, and your mom showed you to him, and told him he was the biological father.

"A-and I think..." Stephen put his hands over his mouth, so his words were muffled but still discernishable. "I-I think... that's when Jonathan planned to use you to get back at me for leaving."

Wirt slouched in his chair. He felt tiny and... just _useable_. He was nothing more than a _sick_ byproduct of the _sick_ things that had happened during that _sick_ time.

"And he left, came back four years later... your mother began seeing him again and... you know everything that happened afterwards."

Wirt's head was in a spin at everything he'd just taken in.

Then Stephen slid over the composition book. "I kept this journal throughout high school. There are details in there if you really want them."

No, Wirt didn't want details, but he took the notebook anyway. He opened it and vaguely flipped through it.

_"-Her and her beautiful eyes and her wit and her humor and her laugh... it kills me, and yet it keeps me from killing myself. With Jonathan peeking over my shoulder every second of the day, I can't believe I've been able to keep my mouth shut for this long."_

_"-Jonathan isn't a pious person, but he believes that all the 'sins' you've commited in the past year are cleansed, and that the 'sinner is redeemed.' That's what he told me. He uses that as a way to justify himself and to feel better about his actions. He's so sick. I don't understand how somebody could be this sick."_

_"When they asked Jonathan his plea, he told the jury, 'Not guilty.' No surprise. It's the same thing he's said at the last three trials."_

Wirt shut the journal and slid it back toward Stephen before standing up and heading toward the hallway. "I'm going to my room."

"Okay," Stephen replied sadly. "Wirt?"

Wirt stopped, but didn't turn around.

" _I'm sorry_."

Wirt didn't respond to Stephen's apology. He went into his room and shut the door.

Greg snored softly, hair disheveled and without his thumb in his mouth.

The last time Wirt had seen his brother sleep like that was the night Jonathan had molested him for what Wirt dearly hoped was the first and only time.

Wirt ran his fingers through Greg's hair, and one fleeting, pleasant thought came to mind.

Technically, this meant Greg was his biological brother.

And in a weird way, Wirt realized he did have a half-brother that he'd never met. _Keenan_.

Wirt lie down in his own bed and closed his eyes.

He could hear Stephen in the kitchen. Crying.

Wirt didn't know how he felt. Stephen felt like a different person then who he'd thought of as "his dad." It was saddening, almost like his dad had died and been replaced by a mere duplicate.

He almost felt like he was exaggerating. He felt out of place, but it wasn't like he'd been kidnapped at birth like in books and movies. He still had the same mother, the same brother, and he knew both of his biological parents (whether he liked it or not).

Technically, in a way, that made Stephen his actual stepfather.

He wondered if he hated Stephen. A part of him did. But the little boy side of him didn't.

Maybe he should give the guy credit, stepping in and raising him. Trying to make his life normal while holding up the weight of the world. He'd failed, but at least he'd tried.

Wirt didn't have a say in anything that happened to him, to his brother, to Alison, or to Josie. He'd just been tossed into a melting pot of betrayal, guilt, hatred, and dark secrets. He just... _existed_. Apparently his existence was something he had to pay for. Stephen had made poor decisions, leading to sick, poor actions, and no matter how hard he'd try to fix them, or even just ditch them, they always caught up to him. And they'd likely never leave. Ever.

That was something both he and Stephen had in common. They were caught up in a traumatic, spiraling mess over which they had no control.

And it made both Wirt and Stephen _powerless_.


	28. Judgement Day

When Wirt began staying at his dad's house, he didn't imagine things ever becoming the way they did. He'd fantasized of sleeping soundly at night, without fearing the sound of footsteps approaching his bedroom door, and of no longer needing to feel like he had to hide. He wanted to see his closet simply as a small storage space for his clothes and personal belongings, not as a hiding place; he wanted to see his bed simply as a comfortable place to sleep, not as a trap; and he wanted to see his home as an escape from the everyday burdens of school, not as a prison.

It was subtly saddening to imagine never talking to his mom again, but then he remembered how she'd chosen a sick monster over him, and he didn't know to feel. He felt everything yet nothing, both at the same time. He felt grief losing the mother he once knew; he felt anger having been tossed into such a hellish situation at a young, young age and being used as somebody's vengeance and as a toy; he felt betrayal for not being his mother's first priority and for risking the insanity and safety of her own son; he felt euphoria from leaving and feeling safe for the first time in many, many years, and being the closest with Sara he's ever been in his whole life; yet he felt numb, empty, and drained, like a sort of "emotional whiplash."

The day following his dad's- _Stephen's_ confession, he broke down and asked on the phone with Sara and her father if he could stay with them, just until the court case came to a conclusion. Sara's dad didn't even hesitate, telling Wirt to pack his things and to be there by six o'clock. Wirt did just that, packing a few days' worth of clothes, his clarinet, his suit, a notebook, and his school supplies. Upon arrival, he was promised a comfortable spot on the hide-a-bed and told to set his things in the closet.

The evening before the jury's final decision on Jonathan's fate, Wirt and Sara filled a bowl with popcorn and M&M's, sat together on the couch, and searched for a movie.

"Do you do scary movies?" Sara asked, remote in hand.

Wirt shrugged. "Not particularly."

"Hmm..." They sat in silence for several minutes as Sara scrolled through the movies available online, but she couldn't seem to find one and gave up, pressing the power button to turn it off. She sighed and looked at the clock up on the wall.

"Do you want to go up to my room?"

Wirt looked at the clock as well and nodded. It was almost ten, and suddenly he felt a surge of guilt at the realization that he'd left Greg alone at Stephen's house. Around this time, Greg would be in bed, and he was likely terrified of lying in a dark room without Wirt there, considering what had happened the last time Wirt had left him for an outing with Sara.

Sara stood and picked up the snack bowl, waiting for Wirt to follow.

Up in her room, Sara opened up her closet and pulled out a modest-looking dress and an ironing board. She left the room for a few moments, and came back with an iron. She plugged it in and waited for it to heat up.

"What's that for?" Wirt asked.

She spread the dress out over the board and straightened out the creases. "For tomorrow."

"Wait... you're _going_?"

Sara nodded a little shyly. "Yeah..."

Wirt became uncomfortable at the thought of Sara being there to see everything unravel. At that point, she'd already seen him throw up on the floor, his back and torso all tattered with bruises, his forehead and hair covered with dried blood after a vicious attack. But he still couldn't stand the notion of her sitting next to him in a court room while the judge and lawyers exploited the torture he'd endured in front of a stone cold jury.

"My dad wanted to go to see what happened," she explained, "and I wanted to... you know... be there for you."

Wirt didn't know how to respond, so he just stared at the dress Sara was pressing.

"What if they don't believe me?" Wirt asked out of the blue.

Sara looked at him, and stilled the iron.

"I don't know... I mean... You could stay with your dad."

Wirt cringed and shook his head. He realized Sara didn't know what his dad had told him. "Some stuff happened, I can't go back there..."

"Why not?"

Wirt crossed his arms. "It's a long story..."

Sara kept staring at him as if expecting him to continue, so he did. "My dad was kind of involved with Jonathan before I was born and all this other junk..."

Sara raised her eyebrows with concern. "Really?"

Wirt nodded. "Yeah, I can't go back."

Sara flipped the dress over and began pressing the back. "...I don't think my dad would be entirely opposed to letting you stay here. And, you know... Greg too."

"Nah, I don't want to bother your dad like that."

But really, Wirt couldn't think of anything better than that. He didn't have anywhere else to go, and he'd love to live with his best friend.

"...anyway, I mean, I don't think you have anything to worry about."

But Wirt wasn't so sure.

They sat in silence as Sara finished ironing the dress and hung it up.

There was a soft knock on the door. Sara invited whoever it was to come in, and her dad poked in his head.

"Don't stay up too late, you guys, okay? We have to be up at 7:30."

"Yeah, Dad," Sara said. "We won't."

"Good. I'm heading to bed. Love you, bumblebee." He looked at Wirt. "Goodnight, Wirt."

"Good night, Mr. Evans."

Sara's dad closed the door.

Sara opened her closet back up and turned to look at Wirt. "Do you want to sleep in my room tonight?"

Wirt thought for a moment. "Your dad might already have the hide-a-bed set up..."

"I can fold it back in," she said, then she realized how inappropriately insistent that sounded and quickly added, "Only if you want to though."

Wirt glanced at the door, and then gave in. "Sure."

Sara smiled, and began taking blankets and pillows out of her closet. "You can take the bed."

"That's okay, I'm fine on the floor."

"Hey, don't even sweat it." She began setting a pillow and blanket onto her carpet.

Wirt glanced up at her desk, and his stomach twisted in on itself when he saw the tape he'd made just before Halloween.

He stood up and wandered over to his backpack to pull out a white tee and sweatpants torn into knee-lengthed shorts. "I'm going to change into my pajamas."

She hummed back in confirmation, otherwise not paying any attention to him.

He silently plucked the tape from her desk and took it with him to the bathroom.

Once he'd shut and locked the door, he tossed the tape deck to the floor. With his shoes still on, he stepped on and smashed it, the plastic bending until it couldn't anymore. He picked up the long black strip of film and began tearing it apart, using his fingers and even his teeth. This way, nobody could try to recover it no matter how hard they tried.

Then he calmly changed into his pajamas, hid the damaged remains of the tape into the bundle of his previous clothes, and went back to Sara's room.

Sara was already fast asleep in the little makeshift bed.

Wirt quietly stuffed his clothes into his backpack, and lie down.

"Night," he whispered out loud, even though he very well knew she couldn't hear him.

With that, he shut the light off and fell asleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

**Both the Unknown and Aberdale began facing Winter at the same time, but the Unknown saw the harsh snow sooner.**

**Wirt and Greg trudged through it, Wirt squinting and gripping his cloak tightly.**

**"I-I-I-I's-" Greg sneezed thrice consecutively. "It's so cold."**

**"I know," he turned toward Greg. "I'm trying to look for the tavern, but-"**

**Wirt stopped, seeing how pale Greg was and how blue his lips had become.**

**"Oh gosh!- alright, we're stopping."**

**He picked Greg up and walked over to a tree.**

**With Greg still in his arms, Wirt began kicking away piles of snow from the base of the tree. He sat down and set his cloak over Greg like a blanket. He cradled him and watched the flakes falling from the sky. It was relaxing and hypnotic, and before he knew how tired he was, he dozed off.**

**Wirt gave a soft snore, and Greg poked his cheek. Wirt didn't react, and Greg giggled.**

**" _Gregory_."**

**Greg recognized the voice, and with wide eyes, and he slowly looked up.**

**"This is no good," The Beast told him. "You're here laughing while your brother is not."**

**"I just-"**

**" _Hush_... don't wake him."**

**Greg pressed his lips together.**

**"Your brother is pain, Gregory." The Beast squinted. "You know that, right?"**

**Greg nodded slowly. "Yeah..."**

**"Don't you feel guilty? Laughing and being so joyful while he's suffering. And after all he's done for you?"**

**Everything went dark except for himself and the Beast, and Greg began to cry out of sheer terror.**

**"For giving you his cloak? For trying to make the pain go away after you were hurt?"**

**Greg looked down and bit his upper lip.**

**"Your brother despised you when you were born, Gregory. Do you know why?"**

**Greg didn't say anything, didn't even shake his head.**

**"Because you're nothing but a burden to him. You came from your father, the one who harmed him, and therefore you're nothing but a monument of your brother's suffering."**

**Greg began to cry harder, wiping his tears with his cold sleeve.**

**"Don't you think you owe him quite a bit?"**

**The darkness vanished, and he could see his brother's sleeping face beside him.**

**"Come with me, and we'll take your brother's suffering away. I'll help you fulfill your duty to pay your brother back."**

**Greg looked between his brother and the Beast, tears still rolling down his face.**

**Finally, he made his decision.**

**He stood up, and set the cloack back over its rightful owner. Wirt stirred, but didn't wake.**

**"Let's go, Gregory." The Beast held out a branchy hand. "Your brother will greatly appreciate this."**

**Greg forced himself to stop crying, his eyes and nose still burning and bottom lip still trembling.**

**He took the Beast's hand, and let himself be taken away into the darkness beyond the trees.**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Greg awoke, eyes wide and forehead moist.

He looked over at the clock. It was almost two o' clock in the morning. The sky was a strange grey, almost orange color, and Wirt wasn't there.

From down the hall, he heard voices.

He sat up and slid off the bed to leave the room. He wandered down the hall toward the noise.

Stephen was fast asleep in the living, sitting upright on the couch, but the TV was on.

Greg knew something had happened between Wirt and his dad. He felt like even acknowledging Stephen would be betraying his brother.

But at the same time, he felt so lonely and scared in the dark bedroom by himself.

He gave in and picked up the remote, sitting beside Stephen on the couch.

There wasn't anything on at this hour, not for him. There was Sesame Street, but he didn't want to watch that now. The main cartoon channel aired grown-up shows late at night and early in the morning, so he didn't bother with those.

One of the movie channels was airing Coraline, a movie he'd watched in his class the day before Halloween. He selected it, having liked the movie a lot.

As soon as he changed the channel, Stephen woke up and looked at him. "What are you doing up this late?"

"I didn't want to be alone in there." Greg was timid, but honest.

Stephen blinked and looked at the TV, and then looked back at Greg. "Okay, but try to get some sleep, okay?"

Greg gave a small smile and nodded. "I will."

Stephen fell back asleep, and Greg followed a few minutes after.

xxxxxxxxx

Wirt wondered if this is how the girls and women of Salem felt in the late 1600's before finding out whether or not they'd be put to death.

Today in court, Sara sat on one side of him and Olivia sat on the other. Next to Sara was her father, and speaking now was the judge.

"Perhaps we can all agree that this has been a disturbing, _confusing_ case..."

The judge began his ramble. Wirt was restless and terrified, fumbling with his hands and just waiting for the juror's decision to be announced. He looked up at his mother, and they both looked away quickly upon making eye contact.

She sat up, folding her hands in her lap and listening to the judge talk. In her eyes was disappointment, loss, and even fear.

Then it began.

"Jonathan, on multiple accounts of incest, and on multiple accounts of sexual assault on a minor under the age of eighteen, we find you..."

Wirt's pulse pounded in his ears, and it startled him when he felt Sara reach over and take his hand.

The tensions, trauma, and suffering that had built up over almost an entire decade were building up like air in a balloon, on the verge of popping.

And then, it was...

_"Not guilty."_


	29. He Hurt Them

The jury's final decision came as no surprise to Wirt. But he still felt like he might throw up.

"That's bullshit!"

All eyes turned to Stephen, who'd stood up and was pointing accusingly up at the judge. Then he thrust a finger at Jonathan and shouted, "You're _sick_! You sick, demented, _kiddy-diddling_ son of a _bitch_!"

The security guards began taking stride towards him, but he pushed past them. If this wasn't reality, his eyes would be glowing red and smoke would be whistling out his ears. He made his way towards Jonathan and reared his fist back. However, the security guards restrained him before Stephen could get even close to hitting him. With all the commotion having everyone distracted, Wirt decided now would be a good time to make a run for it. He pulled his hand away from Sara's, stood up, and scooted out of the pew.

Nobody noticed him but Jonathan, and he watched with sadism in his eyes as Wirt bolted out of the courtroom.

The security guards forcefully pulled Stephen out of the room, and the judge hushed everybody after the initial shock calmed. Still alarmed, Sara whispered to her dad, "I'll be right back." Her father nodded, and she raced after him.

When she exited out to the hall, she saw him burst into the door of the men's bathroom.

She followed. When faced with the door with the word **MEN'S** on it, she hesitated, imagining how shocked, disgusted, and annoyed some tall, brooding lawyer might be if he found a teenage girl in the men's bathroom. She went in anyway, knowing damn well Wirt probably felt destroyed right now, and what he was feeling was infinitely worse than her embarassment would be over being caught in the wrong bathroom.

Sure enough, the biggest stall was locked, and from inside she could hear him breathing as if he'd just run a marathon in the snow; his breaths were quick and shivering, and in between every few shallow breaths was a sob.

"Wirt," She asked gently, "can you open up the door?"

He didn't reply, but she could hear him crawling toward the door, and then the lock on the door opening with a few failed attempts.

She went in and shut the stall again, and Wirt shuffled back into his fetal position up against the wall.

"Breathe, Wirt, it's okay-"

"No it's not! It's not, it's never gonna- gonna be okay, I can't-"

Sara made a point not to touch him. "Just breathe, Wirt, we'll figure this out, it's going to be okay." She demonstrated by giving slow steady breaths of her own, but Wirt didn't even try.

"I told you this would happen, they weren't going to believe me, nobody ever believes me."

Sara just listened, because she had no idea what else to do.

"Sara, I-" He looked right up at her, his face a red, tear-blotched mess. "I-I know what happened to your sister."

Sara paused. "Wait, what?"

Wirt sniffled and wiped his face. "H-h-he did things to her, the bad things, and he took pictures and then he-" Wirt couldn't finish, he felt so guilty and responsible for what had happened to Josie. No, he had nothing to do with it and he hadn't known about it until just recently. But he still felt it, this deep shame that if it wasn't for him, she'd still be alive.

Wirt continued, still crying and covering his ears. "And I'm sorry I didn't tell you until now, he did it, he did it to her and to a bunch of other kids, he hurt them, _he hurt them_."

Sara was horrified. She hadn't thought much about her sister's death for a long time. The lack of Josie's presence didn't linger as much as it used to. But now she felt the way she had the moment she'd found out her sister was dead, so many years ago.

She wanted to cry with him, but she held back for his sake.

The bathroom door opened, and two well-suited men walked in. Realizing that the court session had been dismissed and that everyone was filing out, Wirt panicked and urgently left the bathroom so nobody would hear or see him in there.

He ran down the hall, looking for some corner or abandoned hall that he could go unnoticed in. Sara rushed through the crowd after him, hoping in the very least to keep track of him.

But she wasn't the only one keeping a close eye on his whereabouts.

Next to the emergency exit was a small, deserted space and a door to the stairwell. Nobody was there, because nobody really needed to use the emergency exit or the stairwell right now.

He began to twist the doorknob to the stairwell, until forceful hands turned him around.

He didn't need to look to know who it was.

"It must've felt _really_ good, thinking you could get me incarcerated this easily."

Wirt covered his face and dug his nails into his forehead, wanting desperately just for Jonathan to shoot him and get it over with. There was no hope now, he had nowhere to go, he felt numb and empty. This was his life now. He wasn't a person, he was just a tiny, filthy piece of garbage who'd be used for the rest of his life.

"I'm not stupid. I've been doing this for a _loooooong_ time, long before you were even _born_."

Sara stumbled across the confrontation and froze.

Wirt was too petrified to notice her, and Jonathan seemed too engaged in his little speech to notice her either.

Her first instinct was to pull Jonathan away.

But she quickly realized this was the perfect and last opportunity to make things right.

She didn't want to leave them alone, dreading the thought of what might happen to Wirt if she did.

But if the risk came with the opportunity, she decided to take it.

She raced down the hall and searched for her father, Wirt's mother, or both.

And both she found, standing next to each other as if they wanted to say something harsh to the other, but were trying to remain civilized.

"Dad, Ms. Harton!"

They both looked up at her, a little taken aback by her panic.

"What's the matter?" Her dad asked.

"Both of you, follow me."

Elspeth and Mr. Harton exchanged a confused glance before quickly following Sara down the hall.

She returned to the scene, now with the adults at her side. Nothing more had happened, but Jonathan was still muttering threatningly, not noticing that there were now three witnesses right behind him.

"Once everything blows over, I'll end your goddamned life, and your brother will pick up where you left off-"

"Jon?"

All time seemed to freeze. Wirt's eyes widened, and Jonathan paled at the sound of his wife's voice, taking a step back from Wirt.

"What the _hell_ are you talking about." She asked. But the way she said it sounded more like a statement than a question.

Jonathan clenched his fists, having no reply.

Mr. Evans pushed past him and gently took Wirt's arm. "Come on, son."

As Mr. Evans and Sara led Wirt out to the parking lot, Elspeth was fuming. Jonathan had his back to her still, but that was okay, because Elspeth didn't want to see his face.

"Don't come home," She told him, her voice shaking.

He slowly turned to her. "Well, what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know, and I don't give a _shit_."

"...should I go over to get my stuff-"

"No!" Her eyes began welling up with tears. "You aren't coming anywhere near my house or my kids. I will drop your crap off at your mother's house when I feel like it. But you aren't staying anymore."

Jonathan just stared at her. She stared back, her eyes challenging and full of tears.

Jonathan exhaled through his nose, and through gritted teeth, said, "Fine."

He stormed off, and once he was gone, Elspeth stared at the door to the stairwell.

Her boys had been _abused_. They'd been molested, and perhaps even _worse_.

She dropped to her knees and sobbed into her hands. What had she done? How could she have just stood by when all the evidence was right there in plain sight? Wirt had literally told her, and she'd shot him down. She'd taken him to a psychologist, and then silenced him by shoving pills down his throat and giving his trauma a label. _Schizoaffective_. What a worthless, inadequate, negligent, pathetic, excuse of a mother she'd been to them. Now she was all covered in her own snot and tears, while her son was the one truly suffering.

She wiped her eyes and cleared her throat.

No more tears. This time, it would be Wirt's turn to cry, and she wouldn't ever silence him again.

Out in the parking lot near the Evans car, Sara and her father stood at Wirt's sides, so to make him feel secure while they waited for his mother.

Elspeth came out, looking distraught, like a dog with its tail in between its legs.

Wirt took a step back as she approached, fearing that she'd reprimand him for telling, and for putting the _dear love of her life's_ reputation on the line.

"Wirt," she began softly. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

He looked up at her through bloodshot eyes and sweat-soaked bangs.

"It's all my fault, you should've never had to go through that. I'm sorry I just stood by and let it happen. I wish I could change it, I really do."

She took another step closer to him, but he didn't flinch away.

"You have every right to be mad at me and I understand if you hate me, but I hope you can find it in your heart to come home and let me repay everything I put you through."

She was crying, genuinely crying, and holding out her arms.

Wirt still saw that ignorant side of her, he still almost felt like she was as bad as Jonathan was.

But at the same time, he wanted his mother back, his real mother back; the mother who'd truly loved him and cared about him before he'd told her four years ago.

He didn't return her hug, but he said, "Okay."

It wasn't the hug she'd been looking for, but her whole expressed lit up. "Thank you."

There was a moment of silence before Mr. Evans spoke up. "Do you want to come get your stuff from the house?"

Wirt nodded, and then looked back up at his mom. "Greg's at Mrs. Daniels' if you want to pick him up." He climbed into the Evans car, and the turned to add, "I'll see you at home."

His mother smiled softly at him. "See you at home, sweetheart."

xxxxxxxxx

**I awake to find Greg no longer in my lap. Snow has since sprinkled over my cape and made a fluffy, cold little layer.**

**I immediately stand up in a rush, wondering where in the world Greg could have gone off too.**

**"Greg?" I holler toward the trees, but I receive no answer. "Greg!"**

**I shake the snow off my cape and mumble to myself. "You're in the middle of a dark, creepy forest and there's literally a monster coming after to kill you and your brother, how do you fall asleep and just let him wander off like that, you _idiot_?!"**

**I throw my cape over my shoulders and run off to search for him, but after a few paces, something blue flies into my face with a shriek.**

**I fall onto my backside with a thud, and whatever hit me is on the ground, groaning in pain.**

**" _Beatrice?_ "**

**Beatrice gets up onto her little bluebird talons and looks at me with a sense of urgency. "Wirt, I saw your brother!"**

**"You saw Greg?! _Wh-where_?"**

**"He's- he was... with... the Beast!"**

**"What?- Oh no, oh god no."**

**I frantically stand up and allow Beatrice to perch on my shoulder. "C'mon, we need to find him."**

**I run in the snow, warming up as I do so, glancing side to side for my brother.**

**And then I hear a voice.**

**It's deep, and it's singing into the night.**

_**"Come, wayward souls who wander through the darkness; there is a light for the lost and the meek..."** _

**I follow it, listening for it as it gets louder the closer I get to it.**

**It stops, and then I hear Greg's voice. "Wirt..."**

**I turn, and there he is.**

**My little brother is pale, with branches twisting and wrapping around his limbs and holding him tight like a long, ruthless snake.**

**"Greg!" I rush over to him and begin to tug at the branches, but they don't even budge.**

**"I'm sorry, Wirt," he says, and I stop to look up at him.**

**"What do you mean? Sorry for what?"**

**"For making you hurt all the time." Greg coughs. "For being the reason you're suffering."**

**"Greg- no way, that has _nothing_ to do with you."**

**"Yes it does." He begins gagging, and then sputters out a couple of leaves.**

**"Oh jeez, the leaves are even growing inside him..."**

**"Nah, I was just eatin' leaves..." Greg turns his attention from Beatrice back to me. "I came from my dad, and my dad-"**

**"Greg, stop." I look him dead in the eyes. "You're just a kid. I was just a kid. You didn't have any control over what he did. You're not responsible for his actions and you didn't ask for it anymore than I did. Don't ever blame yourself for it, because I don't, and neither does Mom."**

**Greg smiles up at me. "Really?"**

**"Really." A silence lingers for a few moments, before I clear my throat and say, "Now come on, let's get you out of here."**

**" _This isn't any good, Gregory_."**

**I turn, and the Beast is standing there with something in both hands.**

**In one hand he's holding the lantern, and in the other, he's dragging the unconscious Woodsman by his wrist.**

**He drops both, and leans towards Greg to murmur to him, "It's happening again. You're letting your brother do all the dirty work, while you-"**

**"Shut up, you wretched Beast!" I find myself shrieking, not even believing it's my voice, and not believing it's my foot landing against his face.**

**He makes this weird screech, which sounds more like a video game sound effect than a voice.**

**"Damn you!" He booms.**

**I almost begin to feel superior until Greg is forced to pay for my violent action. A branch wraps around his neck like a faulty umbilical cord, and suddenly the moment is a lot more stressful. I need to do something before Greg suffocates to death, but I can't rattle my thoughts for a solution. If you die in the Unknown, what happens to you in real life?**

**"Leave those boys alone, Beast," says a strained voice from a few feet away. I look, and the Woodsman can hardly hold up his own head. He can only raise his chin barely an inch above the ground.**

**"Shut up, you useless old man."**

**The Beast turns his attention back to Greg, and Greg begins gagging. It takes me a second to realize what's going on.**

**"No, stop!" I pull at the strangling branch, feeling more hopeless than ever as my attempts are to no avail. It's tightening around Greg's neck, cutting into his skin and suffocating him.**

**From the corner of my eye, I see the Woodsman reaching toward something.**

_**The lantern.** _

**I stop pulling and watch as the Woodsman struggles to open the lantern and expose the flame inside with a shaky hand. The Beast sees me looking, and he turns to look in the same direction.**

**But before he can register what he's looking at, that's the end.**

**He lets out a final screech, and his branches begin to twist and contort, getting smaller and more shriveled.**

**Then something falls to the ground with a soft tap, almost like a sewing needle.**

**I pick it up and hold it between the pads of my thumb and index finger.**

**It's a tiny, rotten seed.**

**The branches that had wound around Greg un-attach themselves and sink back into the ground.**

**Greg isn't moving and his eyes are closed, but he's still breathing. The skin of his neck, where the branch had been clutching onto him, is raw, like a bad rug burn.**

**I sling him over my back and turn to the Woodsman. He's still clutching onto the extinguished lantern, weary and out of breath.**

**"Thank you, Woodsman," I tell him.**

**"Where are you going now?" He croaks.**

**I glance at the dark clearing of trees. "I don't know."**

**I look up and around, now noticing that Beatrice had left without a single word, or even a "goodbye."**

**I sigh, and I walk off into the night.**


	30. Furniture Rearrangement II: The End

Elspeth Harton quickly took her maiden name once again: Elspeth Reynolds.

As soon as she came home from the court room, she opened all the windows and turned on the stereo. The house was filled with the sound of the Beatles, and Greg picked up on this solemn joy. He climbed up onto the counter and sat on the edge, watching as his mother sang along with the stereo and paced back and forth between rooms, going on a cleaning and rearranging spree. The first thing she did was go upstairs, remove all the sheets and covers from all the beds in the house, and wash them _twice_.

When Wirt returned home, the house smelled of Febreze and laundry detergent. Elspeth was splashing water on the floor, and Greg was grinning while standing on a towel and scooting it all over the tiles like a human mop.

It was kind of refreshing, to see the house so different with his mother and brother smiling and having a good time, with nobody else around.

Jonathan's presence lingered though, for some time.

Even when Elspeth tried to make it up to them, via movie nights with her boys and outings at the local waffle house, Wirt still felt like there was evil right around the corner, just watching him. It led to hysterical anxiety attacks that took time for Elspeth to learn how to handle.

As a result, she compiled a list of rules:

1: Don't touch him until he's stopped hyperventilating. Then only hold one of his hands. That way, he feels secure with another person, but in control at the same time.

2: No pet names.

3: Don't make him lay down.

And finally, 4: He liked the feeling of cold water on his face for some reason. Keep a damp towel at hand.

When the end of January rolled around, Sara successfully convinced him to join concert band. He was hesitant at first, not solely because of his association of band with... but because he hadn't really played his clarinet in a long time. Additionally, Mr. Tomkins was reluctant to let a kid he didn't know into the band. He had a good idea of the skills of all his students, and yet Wirt was a newbie in his eyes. So he strictly required an audition in sight-reading, and even made him memorize all twelve major scales. It was a daunting task, but Wirt spent hours a day, practicing and learning how to be more fluent in articulations and note values. In that week, he didn't have a single anxiety attack, having been so distracted by the workload. He earned a spot in the band, made some fine acquaintances, and became a little happier.

The biggest setback, however, was when a few people in band found out about the abuse. Many knew about the suicide attempt, but they came to learn about Jonathan too. Wirt suspected that Sara had mentioned it to Jason, and then Jason went and told some others in the class. No, Jason wasn't a mean person, but it was just one of those things that certain people can't keep their mouths shut about. Jason never could keep quiet about things like that, like TV shows and bombshell secrets about people he knew.

Wirt was upset with both of them, and for two days he didn't speak to them, or anyone for that matter. He could barely handle going about his day knowing that now so many of his peers knew what had happened. It was like that irking feeling of everybody in the court room staring at him.

Eventually, he realized they didn't see him the way he saw himself. They didn't see him like the sick, filthy object he saw himself as. Maybe the jury only saw him for the claims he'd made, but they saw him as a person like them, as a person of value that was more than just what somebody else had done to him. No, that didn't completely change his self-image, but he tried to remind himself of it as much as he could. That way, it would be easier to talk to people without feeling so self-conscious.

The night after the last court day, Wirt and Greg both stopped visiting the Unknown. It wasn't a mutual decision, or even a decision at all; it just happened like that. One night, the Unknown existed in their dreams, and the next, it didn't. With Greg, it was an "out of sight, out of mind" sort of thing, he didn't think or really care about it. But Wirt mourned, that impact it had on him during the dark times. In the daytime, he'd been a victim. But in his dreams, he'd been the _Pilgrim._

Elspeth and Mr. Evans became close friends. They both were among the seven band boosters, helping fund for buses and competitions for the kids. They served as fundraisers, chaperones, and even the dreaded title of _stage moms_. But Elspeth enjoyed it, seeing her son enjoying himself and becoming close to his classmates.

That was the weird thing. Wirt came into the band as a sophomore, and in the second semester, clearly much later than those who'd been there since marching season of the previous year. But they all welcomed him with open arms and he became a part of this big family. There was nothing cozier than the late night bus rides home from competitions.

During those bus rides, and while performing alongside this large group of people he'd become close to and comfortable with, it was easy not to think about everything that had happened from Halloween night, 2008, to November, 2015.

xxxxxxxx

Heather was a little sad to see her son come home after so long. Jonathan had been such a smart boy and good father to his sons, it was hard to believe he'd lost it all so suddenly and without even telling her why.

He'd arrived at her doorstep one day mid-November wearing a suit and holding nothing in his hands. No boxes, not a single article of clothing. Just him. She smiled and thought perhaps he'd come to visit. But she was distraught the moment he told her the news- that he'd be living there until he could get back on his feet.

She didn't hesitate to cook him a warm meal that first night and start to prepare his old room.

Obviously, it'd been a long time since he'd slept there, so the room was still set up the way it'd been when he was a teenager. But he insisted it was fine, and settled in quickly.

He had a quick stretch before sitting on his old bed and looking up at the posters on his walls, all of which were posters of classic rock bands.

The PC in his bedroom was old as all hell, but it still ran smoothly. Everything he'd put on it was still there, all those dirty pictures and videos he'd saved.

Stephen really thought he could destroy that camera, but all the sweet gems are right there at his fingertips.

Late at night, when his mother was asleep, he'd indulge those videos and pictures. He'd shut the blinds on his window and gaze at them, with his right hand on the mouse and his left hand someplace else.

It made him feel like a little teenage boy again. He had his mother to slave over him and his gallery to satisfy him in those deep dark hours. If he had somebody tiny and powerless to do the dirty work for him, he'd be in seventh heaven.

He wondered if it was risky to find a job in a local preschool or daycare center to find that tiny, powerless somebody. Maybe not locally, with the charges that'd been put on him. But perhaps somewhere else. He'd be willing to drive a couple hours every day to get the gratification he needed.

Living with his mother and searching for a job, some people would think he'd hit rock bottom.

But baby, _he was only getting started._

xxxxxxxxx

Keenan noticed a pattern on "the bad nights."

First, his baby sister, Brynn, would wake up and start crying.

As a result, his father, Keith, would wake up. With a tired groan, he'd go to her room and put her back to sleep, with a gentle lullaby and hushing. The crying would die down, and he'd put her back into her crib, slowly and carefully, so not to wake her.

He'd leave the room and softly shut the door, and make his way back to the bedroom he shared with his wife.

And the moment Keith shut the bedroom door, she'd wake up.

She'd stay completely quiet until Keith sat on the bed, and then she'd scramble to sit up.

"Where's Mom?" She'd demand.

"What?" Keith would reply.

" _Where's Mom_?" She'd repeat desperately, and Keith would catch on.

"Al, honey, it's just me, it's Keith."

He must have reached out to touch her arm or hold her hand, because she'd holler, " _No_ , get away from me!"

After that, she'd begin breathing quickly and crying.

"Alison, it's me, it's Keith, your husband. Take a deep breath, darling."

Keith would get up and turn on the bedroom and hall lights, and it would completely disrupt bedtime.

As Keith guided his wife's breathing, Brynn would wake up and begin to cry again.

Keenan would take it upon himself to go to the nursery and pick her up out of her crib. He'd do what his dad did, rocking her back and forth and strolling about the room.

Keenan would think about his best friend from second grade named Marcus.

When Marcus was seven, he brought to school a slingshot his uncle had made for him, made of twigs and duct tape. It looked flimsy, but it turned out to hold up quite well. That day at recess, a few kids from their class watched as he tested it out on a beehive. He flung rocks at it, and on the fourth try, the hive fell, and a swarm of furious bees attacked him relentlessly. Horrified onlookers fled the sight and got the teachers, and Marcus, screaming and flailing was taken out of school in an ambulance.

Three weeks later, after a successful recovery, Marcus and Keenan had a sleepover together at Keenan's house (Alison didn't like her son sleeping over in somebody else's home, even if she knew the parents very well), and in the middle of the night, Marcus awoke with a start and began screaming: "Get them off, get them off! They're all over! They're stinging me all over, get them off!"

Keenan wondered if the same thing was happening to his mother; if something scary had happened to her and caused her to wake up in fear.

It'd take sometimes 45 minutes to calm his mother down. Then his dad would come into the nursery.

"Alright, give her to me," He'd say, taking the baby from Keenan. He'd give Keenan a one-armed hug and say, "Thanks, little man, you're a good big brother." Then he'd tell the sleeping Brynn, "Say good night to your brother." He'd press his thumb to her chin and repeatedly open her mouth like a little puppet. " _Good night, big bwother_."

Keenan would smile up at him. "Night, Dad."

And that was it. They'd return to bed, and wake up the next morning as if nothing had happened just a few hours earlier.

xxxxxxxxx

The apartment was empty, and it'd stay like that forever.

Stephen felt numb.

He'd lost everything. He'd drowned in his mistakes, and now he was stuck in eternal damnation. He didn't have his son to support, or friends to contact. He didn't have anything. Just himself, the past, and this silent, ambient apartment.

Nothing felt real anymore. He went about his life, working, eating, sleeping. Sometimes, he only did the first one.

He never knew what day it was anymore. Then before he knew it, it was Wirt's birthday.

He didn't call or anything, because he knew Wirt wouldn't want to hear from him.

Instead, he snorted heroine for the first time. While the little boy he'd dedicated his life to was celebrating his sixteenth birthday, Stephen was beginning his long, slow descent towards a disgusting death.

Now his life was four things: Working, eating, sleeping, and snorting.

Before he knew it, it was June.

He sat at his dining table with head down, and ashy, white powder smeared on his upper lip, when suddenly his laptop chimed, alerting him that he'd just received an email. He almost ignored it, as it was usually spam, or his boss demanding to know why he hadn't come into work today.

But it wasn't either of those.

 **From:** _jharton555_

 **Subject:** _:)_

_your kid is gone, and your car is never in the parking lot of your work building, pretty sure you're going to get laid off, lol._

_"Well, I'm alone there now... In our 'special place'... Waiting for you... Waiting for you to come to see me. But you never do."_

_if you meet me you-know-where tonight at 7 PM, i'll forgive you for trying to attack me in the hall, and i'll consider leaving your cute boy alone._

_j._


	31. Powerless sequel (preview)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prologue to Soldier's Orders; chapter one will be posted on July 1st.

The Grady Motel had been founded seventeen years before families in need were first housed there, and twenty-six years before Clarisse and her father had been found home in room A14.

Their room was on the bottom floor, and very close to the handicapped parking spots, an accommodation made exclusively for Clarisse's father. He depended on two prosthetic legs and a walking stick. Clarisse promised him that when she got older, she'd be strong enough to lift him into his motorized wheelchair, and he wouldn't have to push himself so much to walk. But for now, she was only seven, and unable to lift him. He reassured her she needn't worry about it - he liked walking. It made him feel capable. It wasn't the easiest thing in the world but he enjoyed feeling mobile on his own.

There was a very "underground" sort of community within the motel, engaged in only by those who lived there. The founder, Bob Grady, was a generous man, but he had a very high ego. He wanted his establishment to appear as high-class as a motel could be, and he was afraid that having the homeless living amongst it would taint the motel's "glorious" image. So with a heavy heart, the economically-challenged patrons tried to blend in with those who stayed overnight in the midst of road trips and during vacations. The camaraderie was ever-so-subtle, and Clarisse never understood why their generosity was done with such a shameful hush-hush. Her father had gone as far as to teach her routes to neighbors' rooms to ask for things like a cup of milk or an egg or two, routes that would prevent the non-homeless from catching wind of it.

The shame she learned to feel deep down because of their domestic predicament left her feeling lonely. She adored her father and their neighbors, but there was a small twinge of sad bitterness inside of her. She didn't have any true friends her age. Children at school often disregarded her, whispering to each other about the little smelly, dirty, homeless girl in their class. Teachers grew weary of her constant demand for attention and her attempts at being a likable class clown. She received only dismissive hums and doors in her face. The children living in the motels weren't allowed to play outside, a rule established to keep guests unaware of the homeless community.

One summer afternoon, with tears in her eyes at the remembrance that a boy in her class was currently having a birthday party, one to which she'd not been invited, she decided to break the rules.

She waited until after dinner, when her father went to bed at exactly eight o' clock, and snuck outside, holding the room key. As she crept out of the door, she began to devise a plan to get all the other children outside to play.

That is, until she found a girl sitting at the top of the steps outside.

She was sitting just a few feet away from room 52B. Nobody lived there, but the girl didn't look like a tourist. Her black hair looked un-brushed, and she was wearing a stained dress that appeared a tad too small for her.

Clarisse ascended the steps and sat next to her, and the girl looked at her with something that resembled fear.

"Did you just move here?" Clarisse asked. The girl began to open her mouth as if to respond, but she closed it and looked ahead, away from Clarisse.

Clarisse looked ahead too, a little caught-off guard by the way the girl had responded. Maybe she was ashamed too. With understanding, Clarisse decided to brush it off; her dad always told her that patience was a virtue. She didn't know what the word "virtue" meant but she assumed it means that it's a good thing to have.

"What's your name?" Clarisse asked, trying again in her attempt to break the ice. But again, the girl didn't answer; in fact, she didn't even try this time.

Clarisse was beginning to feel a little hopeless and annoyed in her failed attempts to become acquainted with this new girl. "My name's Clarisse, I live in A14 with my daddy."

Suddenly, the girl turned away from her and peeked around the corner, toward the parking lot. She glanced, and then turned back, still not speaking.

Clarisse was close to giving up now. Maybe the girl was just a tourist, and maybe she was disgusted with her. But she still wondered why she looked the way she did.

"What are you doing here?" Clarisse asked. She decided that if the girl didn't answer, she'd get up and leave.

But for once, the girl did respond. She gave a harsh whisper, "Watching."

Clarisse raised her eyebrows in awe and curiousity. "Watching for what?"

Unfortunately, the girl didn't answer that time, and Clarisse sighed, fearing they were back at square one.

Clarisse decided now wasn't the time. Maybe the girl would be there tomorrow, and maybe then she'd speak to her.

"I'm going in now," Clarisse told her. She walked down the steps and called over her shoulder, "Good bye!"

The girl didn't say it back. She only turned and looked at the parking lot again.

Clarisse frowned and made her way back to room A14. She stuck the key into the slot, waiting for the small light to flash green, and slowly opened the door.

Her father was still sleep.

Clarisse decided to keep watching the girl from the window.

For a few minutes, the girl continued to sit there, constantly glancing around the corner toward the parking lot. Then, there came the sound of a car door shutting. The girl looked again, with a sense of urgency this time, and then frantically stood up and entered room 52B.

Clarisse kept watching, waiting to see who it was that caused the girl to react this way, but from behind Clarisse was the sound of her father shifting in bed and coughing.

"What are you doing, Rissy?" her dad asked

She stepped away from the window. "Nothing."

He yawned and cleared his throat. "Don't be staring out the window, you know how Bob feels about that."

Clarisse sighed and paid the outside one last glance for the night, but from where she was standing, she couldn't see who'd shut the car door and caused the girl to enter the motel room.

Over the next three days, around the same time, the girl sat at that spot at the top of the stairs, repeatedly glancing over her shoulder at the parking lot. On two of those three days, Clarisse went to visit her again and try to befriend her. But both times were in vain, ending with the girl running into her room at the sound of the car door shutting.

On the third day, Clarisse decided to fess up to her father.

But she knew she had to do so in such a way that her father wouldn't get her in trouble. She didn't want to be grounded from the TV again. He'd once grounded her from it for an entire week, and it had been torture. She'd already read all the books in her suitcase at least _twice_ and filled up all her coloring books. There was positively nothing to do here.

"Daddy?" she said to him an hour before dinner.

"Yes?" he said, propped up against the pillows on his bed and flipping through a magazine.

"Um..." She glanced at the window, not knowing how to tell him without raising suspicion upon herself.

She looked down and fumbled with the drawstring on her shorts, and her dad looked up at her from the magazine. "What's up, Rissy?"

She looked back at the window, and then at him. "There's a girl who sits outside a lot."

"Is there?" he said, looking back down at the magazine.

"Uh-huh. And, um... she..."

Again, her father looked up at her, and that's when she realized there was no way for her to tell him without outright admitting she'd gone outside without his permission. So she just spilled the beans. "I keep trying to talk to her and be friends with her but she won't talk back to me."

Her dad set down the magazine, and she braced herself for a talking-to and for her punishment.

"Rissy, I don't appreciate you going outside without asking me first."

"I know..." she murmured.

He paused, and then brushed a hand through her hair. "But I get it. It's boring here and there's nobody to talk to, right?"

Clarisse nodded, feeling a little better.

"Bob is a little full of himself and doesn't let any of us have fun. And it _sucks."_

Clarisse couldn't help but smile a tiny bit and look up at him.

"How about this... if she wants, you can invite her over for dinner tonight. Maybe if she got to know you a little better and we made her feel at home, maybe she'll feel a little more comfortable."

Clarisse sat up with joy at her eyes. " _Really?"_

"Yes, really. That sound good?"

Clarisse nodded and wrapped her arms around him. "Thank you thank you thank you _thank you!"_

He laughed softly and hugged her back. "Why don't you go see if she's out there now? I'll order pizza."

"Okay!" Clarisse stood up and jumped off the bed. She took the key from the TV stand and raced outside. Sure enough, the girl was sitting at the top of the steps, but this time she was humming to herself and staring contently up at birds in a tree.

Clarisse had never heard the girl's real voice before, nor had she seen her look... not serious.

"Hey!" Clarisse called up to her, and the girl looked down at her. Suddenly she looked serious again.

Clarisse walked up the steps and stood in front of her. "Do you want to come have pizza with us?"

The girl seemed a little off-put by the question, and she turned and looked the parking lot again. This time, she spoke. "Why?"

"Because it'll be fun!" Clarisse sat down. " _Please?"_

The girl turned and looked at the parking lot again, and then back to Clarisse. "Will it take long?"

"Um..." Clarisse felt a small bit of disappointment. Why didn't the girl want to stay long? Why didn't she like her? "Not too long, if you don't want to."

The girl thought for a moment, looked over at the parking lot once more, looked up at the sky, and then nodded. "...okay."

Clarisse stood up. "Let's go."

Her excitement had since started to deteriorate. How could she have much fun having the girl over, knowing that she wanted to leave as quickly as possible?

Why did she have to leave so soon anyway?

It took a half hour for the pizza to arrive. In the meantime, while Clarisse's father sat in their little kitchenette and focused on his laptop, the two girls sat side by side on her bed and tried to watch the television. The girl appeared confused and a little timid. Whenever Clarisse laughed at the cartoon, the girl tried to share her joy, but it was clear that she didn't seem to have much of a sense of humor. So Clarisse shut it off and looked for something else to entertain them. She reached under her bed and opened up her suitcase, revealing all of her coloring books and worn chapter books. She pulled out the stack of coloring books, zipped up her suitcase, and dropped it to the side of her bed for later.

Clarisse picked one up and opened it to the first page. "This coloring book I got from my aunt for my birthday. It's full of horses and ponies and stuff." She flipped through and told the girl all their names. "I colored them pink mostly because it used to be my favorite color- not anymore though. It's only my third favorite color, and purple is my second favorite color, and blue is my first favorite color now."

The girl seemed confused, but she listened and gave Clarisse her full attention.

Clarisse shut the coloring book and pulled out another one. "I got this one from the food share at the church. See- I like this one because I used a lot of blue. I used a lot on this page and this page..." She flipped through each page. "There's Jesus and the angels, and I used blue to color in their halos and stuff."

When Clarisse looked up, the girl had turned to look out the window. She seemed fixated on something, shifting side by side as if trying to get a better view.

"Why do you keep doing that?" Clarisse asked her.

The girl turned back around. "Doing what?"

"You keep looking at something."

The girl shrunk down a little. "I'm just watching."

"Watching for what?"

"Nothing," she responded adamantly.

Clarisse started to get the hunch that the girl was hiding something, something _bad_.

"Is it somebody from school?" Clarisse asked.

"What?" The girl looked up, appearing confused.

"Is somebody from school being mean to you?"

The girl just stared at her for a few moments, then admitted, "I don't go to school."

This made Clarisse even more confused, and she began to feel really, truly uneasy. What was up with this girl? Why didn't she talk much? Why did she spend so much time outside? And _what was she constantly watching for?_

Outside, a car door shut, and the girl appeared wide-eyed and rigid. She began to get up from the bed, until Clarisse's father spoke up. "That might be the pizza guy."

With a grunt, he stood up with his cane and hobbled on over to the front door. Sure enough, a young-looking guy in a red polo, khakis, and a black cap with their restaurant logo on it, handed Clarisse's father their pizza box and accepted his cash.

Clarisse's father shut the door and set the pizza down onto the small countertop. "Let me serve these up real quick..." He pulled out a few paper plates. While he was divvying up the slices, Clarisse was watching the girl, who was standing up and staring at Clarisse's father and at the door with terror.

He turned to Clarisse. " _Big slice of cheese for Rissy, and_..." After he handed her the plate, he turned and picked up another. He looked over at the girl. "Would you like some too?"

The girl just stared at him unresponsively, and Clarisse noted the way her hands were shaking, just ever so slightly, as if she was freezing.

"Here." He set a slice onto the plate, shut the pizza box, and set her plate on top of it. "If you want it, it's right here, okay?"

The girl, semi-jaw-slacked, nodded and turned back to Clarisse.

Clarisse looked at her dad, wondering if he had caught wind of how weird the girl was, and he looked at her the same way. _See?_

"So what's your name?" Clarisse's dad asked her, in as gentle of a tone as he could.

The girl looked at him, and then at Clarisse. When she realized that they were both staring at her, she began to appear panicked. "Um..."

"Have you been living here for a while?"

She looked over at the window with an intensity that didn't belong on the face of a presumed seven-year-old.

"Hey, is something the matter?" He asked her. He was looking at her in a certain way, and Clarisse recognized it as the way he'd looked at her when she'd first told him about the kids at school who were treating her horribly.

The girl looked back at Clarisse's father. "I-I..."

Suddenly, there came the sound of a car door shutting from outside, and she stopped shaking and stood up straight, looking like a deer in the headlights. She turned and began running her fingers over the covers on Clarisse's bed until she found something. Her room key.

Without a word, she fled out of the door. Clarisse chased after her, despite her father's shouts at her not to.

Clarisse stopped right outside, and saw the girl just about to open her motel room door.

This is, until a man turned the corner. The girl looked at him, and stepped back. Clarisse watched as the man gripped her arm and hissed something at her. In response, the girl dropped her head. It was as if the panic inside her had just shut off like a switch. In fact, it was as if _everything_ in her had just shut off like a switch.

The man snatched the key from her, opened the door, and quite literally shoved her in. He looked more angry than Clarisse had ever seen somebody look in her entire life.

Then he turned his head and looked right at her. And just like the panic inside the girl, the man's anger just sort of shut off. He stared at her, and Clarisse stared right back. She wondered who the man was. Was it the girl's dad? An uncle? A brother?

"Clarisse _, get in here right now_ ," her father demanded. Clarisse watched the man as she entered her room, and he did exactly the same.

After Clarisse shut the door, she looked at her dad. "There was a man," she told him.

"Was it her dad?" He asked, and Clarisse shrugged.

"Maybe."

Her father sighed. "Okay. Did you see what room they're in?"

"Room 52B."

He nodded. "Alright, I'll call Bob later."

"Why, what's wrong?" Clarisse asked.

"Don't worry about it, Rissy. Look," he waved her over and looked her directly in the eyes, "I do not want you going back outside alone, okay?" Just as Clarisse was about to protest, he added, " _I mean it_."

Clarisse gave up and nodded with a frown. "Okay."

"Clarisse, I'm serious. I don't want you trying to talk to her again."

"But dad-"

"But nothing. Until things are cleared up, I don't want you going back outside without me, and I don't want you trying to talk to that girl again. Got it?"

Clarisse just dropped her eyes from her dad.

"Clarisse, you will not-"

" _I've got it!"_ She snapped at him.

Her father just shook his head with a sigh. "No more TV for tonight."

Clarisse groaned and lie down on her bed. She turned her back to him.

She wanted so desperately to know what was wrong. She refused to give up until the girl told her. She had to find out. She _had to_ know.

The following evening, after dinner, Clarisse's father hid the room key and told her she was to go to sleep at the same time he did. The day had gone by okay, he hadn't mentioned what had happened the day before. Clarisse had even been planning to go back outside after her father fell asleep, just like before. But her father had outsmarted her. For the most part.

With the lights off, Clarisse lie down and shut her eyes. Before long, she began snoring softly. Not even five minutes later, her father began to snore as well. Only difference was, his snores were real.

Clarisse turned silently and looked at him. There. Now she could go out.

She slid out of bed as softly as possible, making as much noise as a tiny mouse as she crept toward the door.

She opened it softly and slowly, and slipped out. She didn't shut it all the way, because she didn't have the key. But she figured it was safe, that her father wouldn't wake up and notice the open door.

As Clarisse walked outside, she figured the girl would already be inside by now. In such a case, she might have to resort to spying on them through the window.

But to her surprise, the girl was outside still. She was staring downward and sitting on her hands.

Clarisse ascended the steps toward her. "Hey," she whispered.

But the girl didn't look at her.

"What's going on?" Clarisse asked.

The girl, as expected, didn't say anything. But this time, it shook fear into Clarisse.

From behind the door, she could hear a man's voice say, " _See_ , I told you."

Then, in the most haunting whisper, the girl looked up at her and said, _"Go home_."

Before Clarisse could ask what she meant, the door to 52B opened, and the man from yesterday smiled at her. "What are you doing out so late?" He asked her.

Her voice got caught in her throat. He was smiling at her, smiling at her in the friendly way their neighbors smiled her, but it didn't feel like he was so friendly.

"Are you locked out?" He asked her, and she shook her head. "Do you need to borrow a phone or something?"

Suddenly, another voice from inside mumbled something, but Clarisse couldn't hear what it was.

000

Before she knew what was going on, the man had snatched her up and was bringing her into their room. She tried to thrash out at him and holler, but he held his hand over her mouth and handed her to another man.

The man holding her now pushed her down onto the only bed in the room and held her there by her arms. She tried kicking him, but he was on her. She trembled violently while squirming under him. "Stop it," he told her. But she didn't stop it. She was scared, and she wanted to go home. She felt sick and out of place, like whatever was happening wasn't even real.

She couldn't see much of her surroundings with the man on top of her, but she could see a _third_ man standing next to the door. His back was to them, and he stared out the peephole with his hands over his ears.

She couldn't see where the girl was, or where the first man was. But she could hear him. "This one good?"

The man above her let go of her arms and turned to the first man. "Yeah, awesome, she kind of reminds me of Aly."

Who was Aly? She wondered. And why was the man taking off his clothes?

She began to cry, and everything felt like a terrible blur. With her clothes off he began hurting her, doing something that hurt more anything else she'd ever felt. It lasted for a long time, and she wanted it to stop. She hoped her father would wake up, and find the door open, and come up to room 52B, and take her away from the disgusting thing that was happening to her.

After a while, it was over. The man stopped, and for a few minutes, he just lie above her, breathing hard. " _Fuck_ ," he muttered.

"Do you need me to get the bathroom ready?" The first man said, and the man on Clarisse nodded.

"Go ahead."

He got off of her, and she was ready to leap up and run, but he wrapped his fingers around her neck and held her there. _"Don't move a damn muscle_."

She didn't, only because she was scared he'd start hurting her again.

He began putting his clothes back on, and she looked up to see the first man taking a pile of towels, sheets, and a big plastic thing into the bathroom.

000

The man who'd hurt her went into the bathroom as well, and Clarisse looked at the man next to the door.

"I want to go home," she whispered at him.

He turned and looked at her, and she noticed how red his eyes were. "I know," he whispered back to her.

" _Please_ let me go home," she begged quietly. He just looked away from her helplessly and went back to staring outside.

The first man picked her up from the bed and brough her into the bathroom. On the floor, they'd made a set up. There were two towels on top of the plastic sheet, and the plastic sheet was on top of two dark bed sheets.

Clarisse could see the girl standing inside the bathtub, weeping and covering her face.

The man lie Clarisse down on the set up, and she wondered with dread if he was going to do it to her too, as she still hadn't been allowed to put her clothes back on.

But he left the room, and Clarisse looked up at the girl.

"I'm sorry," the girl cried to her. "I'm sorry."

Clarisse wondered if the girl had ever been hurt too, the way she'd just been.

The man who'd hurt Clarisse came in, and suddenly the girl began screaming at him. She kept screaming and crying the words "stop" and "no," and it took Clarisse a moment to realize that he was holding a knife.

He knelt above her, and Clarisse screamed and begged too, holding her hands up in an attempt to fend him off. But he just pushed her hands away, and he brought the knife down.

Following an intense slashing pain in her throat, Clarisse couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't even make a sound. She could just... feel and hear. She could feel something warm on her neck, and she knew it was blood. She could hear the girl crying loudly.

Clarisse didn't want to die, not here, not like this, not _now._

But after a few more seconds of listening to the girl's terrorized wailing and of seeing the man standing above her, her ears rang loudly, her vision blurred...

and that was it.

Her body was wrapped up, all burrowed in towels and plastic and sheets.

The girl sat in the empty tub, crying and rocking back and forth with her face in her knees.

She looked up with horror when somebody entered the bathroom.

The man with red eyes knelt down next to the tub. "Come on," he said to her softly. "We've gotta go."

She exhaled shakily and looked down. Numbly, she stood up and raised her arms to him. He lifted her up and carried her down to the car, where Clarisse's body had already been stuffed into the trunk.

Soon, everybody piled into the car. It was dark and quiet out. The car was turned on, and the radio was the only noise in the world as they pulled out the Grady Motel.

The police were notified of Clarisse's disappearance early the next morning. But by then, it was far too late.


End file.
